


time's gonna take me

by brookethenerd



Series: Time Flies By AU [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sequel, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: After the events of Time Flies By, the reader makes it back to 2019, with Steve in tow. But the Upside Down and the scientists trying to weaponize it aren’t finished, leading Steve and the reader to find allies in the original party, as well as their children, to stop them once and for all.
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Series: Time Flies By AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603069
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow I am SO excited about this!!! This spin off has been in the works for months, and while it def didnt need to take that long, I got a little too into creating the characters and world lol. this fic wouldnt be possible without @daddystevee help, so thank u for listening to my writing rants and helping me create things out of that madness! this will follow the events of time flies by, but based off the alternate ending rather than the original. weird, I know, but like, hey, im doing it anyways

The world - your world - looks different after over a month in the past. Despite years of walking the path through the forest and guiding yourself by muscle memory, your time in the other Hawkins has affected you, and oddly enough, walking along the dirt path leading out of the woods feels more unfamiliar than walking the path behind Steve’s house, back in 1985.

You’ve been gone for six weeks, or thirty five years, depending on how you look at it.

You found your phone where you dropped it - six weeks or thirty five years ago - and though it's dirty, half dead, and covered in scratches, it still works, and tucking the object into your pocket is an immediate relief borne out of years of carrying the thing.

Steve walks beside you, hesitating when you exit the trees and come onto your street, the new houses off-putting after the 80’s style. He stops at the edge of the grass, frowning, and you pause, turning to face him.

“You still sure about this?” You ask. His brows twitch, and a smile tugs up on his lips. He crosses the short distance between you, wrapping his arms around you.

“You kidding?” He asks. “I almost lost you today. Now, instead, I’m walking around town with you. I’m pretty damn sure.”

“I still can’t believe you did that,” you say, hands sliding up to settle against his chest. He shrugs, cocking his head.

“Me neither,” he says, grinning.

You smile, pulling out of his grip, reaching down to take his hand in yours. He threads your fingers together, and you squeeze.

“Seeing as I’ve been missing for weeks, my house is probably not a safe bet tonight.” You tug your phone out, tapping a few times before the screen lights up, damaged but not destroyed. Steve’s eyes widen, and he steps closer to you, peering over your shoulder.

“The hell is that?” He asks.

“It’s a cell phone,” you say. “Like, the landline in your house, except its right in my hand.” He nods, clearly still confused, but watching as you flip through apps and search bars.

“If we can’t go to your house, where can we go?”

“For tonight?” You ask. Your lips tug into a grin. “It’s time to find an old friend.”

* * *

Having the internet after six weeks of slaving around without it is like being handed the keys to the universe; it’s so ridiculously simple, after those weeks of trying to coordinate and navigate without it, that you almost feel like it’s too easy when you find the article about the music teacher Robin Buckley, with the photo of her standing outside a home that you recognize from your years biking and driving around the town.

Before, you didn’t know the woman who lived inside the big brick house. Now, though a little and a lot of time has passed - depending on how you look at it - that house contains one of your best friends. The Robin Buckley you and Steve remember has grown up, but you have to believe she’s still her, that she’ll still open the door for you.

The house is a short walk from the woods, and for the first few minutes, it feels like you’re out for an evening stroll with a boy, like the world is normal. Steve asks questions about the new technology he sees - cars and TV lights flashing through windows - and you feed him answers. It’s like that first day in Hawkins, back in 1985, except now, Steve is out of place, thrown into a world that is not his own.

This time, though, there will be no going back. When Steve jumped through that hole, you watched the gate close up behind him. You were the key, and with your exit, the door was locked. You just hope that Steve doesn’t come to regret it, to regret _you_.

“It’s so weird,” Steve says as he walks, shaking his head. “Like, Robin’s gonna be old. Dustin, Lucas, all the kids.”

“Time travel’s a bitch,” you say, and Steve snorts a laugh.

“It got me you,” he says.

“Cheeseball.”

He grins, swinging your hand with exaggeration as you head down the sidewalk. The brick house comes into view, two stories, covered in gnarled vines that climb up and down the walls. Two cars sit in the driveway, and a light on the porch beckons.

You both stop at the base of the driveway, staring up at the house.

“This is it?” Steve asks.

“This is it.”

He nods, taking a breath before tugging your hand, pulling you up the drive.

“Well,” he says, “guess it’s now or never.”

You stop before the door, and Steve reaches out, rapping his knuckles against the wood. He lets his hand drop, stepping back, shifting back and forth on his heels, the only indication that he’s nervous. You reach out to take his hand, squeezing, and he catches your gaze in his.

“It’s gonna be fine,” you say. “It’s not like she forgot us.”

He nods, but before he gets the chance to speak, the door swings open, and a girl around you and Steve’s age stands on the other side of the threshold. She’s beautiful, with shiny dark hair and curves, and her dark brows furrow at the sight of you.

“Can I help you?” She asks, propping a hand on her hip. Steve looks to you, dumbfounded, and you clear your throat.

“We’re looking for Robin Buckley. She lives here, right?”

The girl’s brows arch, and she nods, stepping back and turning toward a staircase stretching up and out of sight of the door.

“Mom!” She calls. “It’s for you!”

A moment later, a woman in her late forties comes down the stairs. She has dark hair and bangs, and light eyes, and though her initial expression is curious, it hardens the moment her eyes land on you.

“My god,” she says, coming to stand beside the girl. “It’s you.”

There’s something familiar about her, and though it takes a moment, old memories from the world before you went back in time flutter into your head. The woman standing before you is Reagan Ruthers, and she’s a member of the Hawkins Police Force.

_Fucking hell._

“I-uh-we-” You stammer.

“Reagan? Kait? What are you two-” Another woman descends the stairs, but this one is familiar, recognizable, though older.

Robin Buckley, now 50 years old, but still resembling the 20 year old version of her that you remember. Dirty blonde hair, though now it’s longer, tucked back, and streaked with gray, piercing gaze, though with more lines on her face, and that expression she had reserved for Steve Harrington and his stupidity. It’s that expression that plays on her features, now.

A wide smile tugs on her lips, and she pushes past the two women onto the porch, wrapping you in a tight hug. You hug her back, burying your face in her hair, remembering the last time you hugged Robin Buckley. Not much time has passed for you or Steve, but for Robin, it’s been a lifetime.

Last you saw Robin Buckley, she was still figuring out who she was. Now, she’s concretely herself, with a wife and a daughter. As far as you can tell, she got everything she wanted; everything she deserved.

Maybe that means you did the right thing by coming back. Maybe that means you fixed the problems, that the gate and the Upside Down died when you left them behind.

She moves on to hug Steve next, and steps back, looking between you and shaking her head.

“Took you two long enough.”

“Mom?” The girl - Kaitlyn - asks, peering at you an Steve curiously. Reagan stands behind her, fully in cop mode, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. Robin turns to face them, giving them a soft smile.

“You owe me twenty bucks,” she says to Reagan. “I told you they were coming.”

Reagan shakes her head, eyes wide, lips parted. Her gaze stays on you, her brows furrowing.

“We’ve been looking for you for a month,” she says.

Robin scans the driveway and street, and thought quiet and dark, she frowns, gesturing for you and Steve to go inside. You do so, and she follows you in, tugging the door shut behind her. She leads you, Steve, Reagan, and Kaitlyn through the main entrance down a hall opening to a big living room with big, comfy couches and a flat screen propped on the wall.

Robin, Reagan, Kaitlyn, and you immediately settle on the couches, but Steve hesitates, clearly trying to take in the room and getting overwhelmed by it all. You reach out, touching his hand with yours, and he meets your gaze. You give him a reassuring nod, hoping the message of ‘ _ill answers any questions later_ ’ is conveyed. He nods back, some of the tension leaking out of him, and comes to sit beside you.

Robin stares at you both, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just…it’s weird. I haven’t seen you in over thirty years, and now, here you are, exactly the way you looked the day you left.”

“You really did it, then?” Reagan asks, sitting beside Robin, her brows furrowed. “You went back in time, and jumped forward again.” Robin’s eyes widen, and she pushes off the couch, crossing the room to the fireplace the TV rests atop. There are photographs in frames along the ledge, and a small stack of pictures near one corner. Robin grabs it, thumbs through it, and pulls out a photo, coming back to the couch. She stretches across the coffee table to hand it to you, and you take it, sitting back to show Steve.

You don’t remember the photo being taken, but it must have been done by Jonathan. It’s old, faded with time, but the photograph clearly shows you standing in the Wheeler’s basement with Robin, Steve, Nancy, El, and Max, all of your heads tipped back and eyes closed as you laugh about something.

Your heart twinges, an ache for the world - the time - you left behind and found a home in. That place is gone, and all of those people, with the exception of you and Steve, are grown up. Life never affords us the opportunity to go back, but in this case, that inability feels heavier than you expected.

Robin has a family. The rest of the kids are grown up, likely with their own lives and families, too. And yet, you and Steve are still at the beginning of your journeys. You’re standing on blank slates, and will find others to walk the paths with. It’s a little sad, but hopeful, too.

“Hold on,” says Kaitlyn. “They’re the Steve and the Y/N from the stories.” She looks to you and Steve, one side of her mouth quirking up. “You guys were my _bedtime_ stories. I grew up hearing about how Steve Harrington and Y/N Y/L/N closed the gate and saved Hawkins.”

“You know about us?” You ask. She nods, smile widening.

“Of course. All of us do. I mean, Steve was _named_ after you,” she says gesturing at Steve. Steve stiffens, gaze snapping to Robin in a silent question. Robin grins, shrugging.

“That’s Dustin and Luna’s son. One of their twins is named Steve,” Robin says.

“After…after me?” Steve asks, sounding a little breathless. Robin nods. Steve shakes his head, sitting back against the couch. “We missed so much.”

Your stomach twists, and you take Steve’s hand. He squeezes, but keeps his eyes on Robin.

“The others. They’re all okay? After we left, nothing…I don’t know, happened?”

Robin nods again, leaning into Reagan, who wraps an arm around her wife.

“It went silent after that. The hole you came through disappeared, and we went on with our lives,” she says, though there’s a little sadness to her voice. You realize that, while you’ve only spent a few hours in this time, missing the time you lost, Robin and the others _mourned_ you and Steve. You weren’t dead, but you weren’t alive, either; you were out of time, and all they could do was wait, and wonder; wonder if you would pop back up eventually. “I graduated. Then the kids. Lucas and Max were in California for a while, and Will went to school in Washington, but they’ve been back for about ten years.” She presses her lips together, inclining her head. “We all knew that, if you two were coming back, it would be around 2019. No one knew when, so we made sure everyone was here.”

“And they’re all…” You flick a glance at Kaitlyn. She may have heard the stories, but she didn’t live through the bloodshed, and you’re not sure how much of the darkness Robin and Reagan let slip into the tales. “Alive?”

“They are,” Robin says, smiling. “And they’ll be thrilled to see you two. If you’d come back twenty years ago, you likely would have gotten punched out by Dustin, but thirty five years is a good buffer period.”

“Can we…see them?” Steve asks.

It’s Reagan’s turn to speak now, and she straightens, nodding.

“For right now, you both should stay here. Steve, because you technically died in 1985, and Y/N, because this entire town has been looking for you. Tomorrow I can take you into the station,” Reagan says, looking at you, “and we’ll contact your parents. Steve, you’re damn lucky Lucas and I are officers. We should be able to make you official again soon enough.”

Robin pulls out her phone, tapping away for a moment before looking up.

“I let the others know that the package arrived. I imagine they’ll start showing up as soon as its socially acceptable.”

“Which, if the kids are involved, will be around 4 AM,” Kaitlyn says. Robin and Reagan smile.

“They’re just like their parents,” Robin says. “Luckily, their parents grew up, and won’t bug us until at least ten.”

“The package?” Steve asks, cocking a brow. Robin grins.

“You’ve been gone thirty five years,” she says. “We had to have some fun with it.”

* * *

Robin directs you and Steve to a guest bedroom for the night, though it will likely become Steve’s room, as he can’t exactly go after his parents, if they’re even still in Hawkins, or alive. You mentioned it once, and he shot it down quickly, saying he didn’t jump through time just to move back in with his shitty parents. So, for the time being, he’s the Buckley-Ruthers household’s fourth occupant.

The house quiets quickly, Robin, Reagan, and Kaitlyn heading to bed. You and Steve borrow pajamas, but you’ll need to take Steve shopping; just thinking about that reminds you of the mall, all that time ago - six weeks or thirty five years, depending on your preference - when you still had no idea where your path would lead.

You certainly didn’t expect this, to be laying in a bed in 2019 with a boy from 1985 beside you.

“How are you holding up?” You ask, rolling so that your head is on the same pillow as Steve’s your faces inches apart.

“I’m okay,” he says. His brows twitch. “I guess I know how you felt, now.”

“Weird, isn’t it?”

“Did you get used to it?”

You purse your lips, and say, “In some ways. In others, though, I always knew it was…off, if that makes any sense.”

He nods, shifting, gaze moving to the popcorn ceiling above you. He’s quiet for a long moment before he speaks again.

“I always felt, like, out of place there. Like I was on the wrong step, or I was missing something. And then you showed up, and I felt like I was halfway there. I thought that coming here would…I don’t know, throw me even more off step, but…” He shakes his head, gaze slipping back to yours. “It doesn’t make any sense, but the minute I came through that hole, I felt like, for the first time, I was in the right place.” He shakes his head. “How is it possible that the only place I’ve ever felt right isn’t even mine?”

Your stomach tumbles, and you shift closer to him, slipping an arm around his waist, curling the fingers on your free hand around the fabric of his shirt, knuckles against his chest.

“Maybe it is yours,” you say. “Maybe it was always supposed to be yours.”

A tiny smile tugs on his lips, and his eyes flutter shut.

“So…you don’t…I don’t know-”

“Regret it?” He asks, opening his eyes. He lets out a breath, and says, “No. Not even for a second.”

You smile, and he ducks his chin, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You sink into him for a long moment before pulling away, tugging the blankets up. You reach over to grab your phone off the nightstand - an old but familiar habit - and open it, the screen lighting up. Steve stills, gaze snapping to the phone, curiosity weaving itself into his features.

He doesn’t say anything, so you let him watch as you go through the old motions, checking social media - not the best idea, seeing as everyone thinks you’re missing. You end up on google, and type in a few keywords, just to see what comes up: _Hawkins Starcourt Mall Explosion & Deaths_.

The article, old, tells the story of the explosion, and just as expected it’s as cleaned up as it was in 1985. The cover up was successful, and from what you can tell, the Russians and the Americans working in the lab halted their operations after Starcourt; or, at the very least, halted them in Hawkins.

“So…it’s really over, then?” Steve asks, reading along with you. He’s shifted, has his head pillowed on your chest and an arm across your waist, the weight comfortable against your side. You smile, nodding.

“It’s really over,” you say.

“Good fucking riddance,” Steve says. You laugh, turning off your phone and setting it aside.

“You can say that again.”

“What do we do now?”

“We live, Steve Harrington,” you say. “We live.”

* * *

**_SOMEWHERE IN HAWKINS_ **

The control room is full of desks and computers, each with a man or woman sitting behind it. They all wear headphones, listening to radio broadcasts and snippets of phone calls. The computers run on their own, working through algorithms, plucking out information deemed relevant.

In the back of the room, a man in a suit stands overlooking. He’s young, new to his position and eager to follow in his predecessors' footsteps. He’s confident that he will be the one to complete the work started, and destroyed, here so long ago.

Behind him, taped to the wall, are a handful of photos. A few headshots - three teenage girls, two Wheeler’s and one Byers’ - and a few of people in action, walking through town or leaving the high school or heading into Melvald’s general store. At the top of the photos is a copy of a polaroid taken in a basement.

A few teenagers stand in the shot, and though the photo itself was already old and faded before the copy was made, the faces are clear. The names are scrawled at the bottom - Robin Buckley, Eleven Hopper, Nancy Wheeler, and Max Mayfield - but two are missing: the names of boy in the middle and the person beside them. The boy has an arm around them, and they’re all laughing with their eyes closed and their heads tipped back.

There is no label for the boy, only a question mark; they have no name for him, as his very existence cannot be verified. He’s a ghost, just like his partner.

As for the other person in the photo, the monicker simply reads: _the Key._


	2. part 2

“Anyone else having flashbacks?”

The voice, familiar but different - a little deeper, rougher, older - rouses you from sleep, and your eyes snap open. The room is unfamiliar, but the memories of the night before slide back into place, and you recognize it as Robin and Reagan’s guest bedroom. Curled up against you, his chin tucked and back arched like a sleepy child, is Steve, unstirred by whatever woke you.

You catch movement across the room and you push to a sitting position to find yourself staring at a room full of somewhat familiar faces.

They’ve all aged over thirty years, with the youngest nearing 50 and the oldest edging toward 55, but they’re unmistakeable. After all, you saw them only yesterday.

Lucas, the tallest of the group, is still thin like he was as a child, but he’s grown into his form; it’s less gangly and more certain, like he’s carrying confidence. Max stands with an arm around him, her hair just as fiery red as you remember, save for a few streaks of gray. Dustin’s curly hair is cut short, just long enough for the coils to be visible. El reminds you of Cobie Smulders, with that same light brown hair and intense gaze. Mike, too, has grown out of his gangly awkwardness, and stands with certainty next to El. Will is perhaps the most unrecognizable, but not because his appearance drastically changed - though, he’s got a real Jude Law vibe going on that you weren’t expecting. It’s the way he holds himself, like he isn’t concerned about taking up space anymore.

Nancy’s hair is darker, grown out and curled, but she has that same kindness - and wariness - in her eyes, and Jonathan, beside her, still, somehow, has nearly the same hair after all these years.

“Holy shit,” you say, and elbow Steve, not moving your gaze from the Party - grown up, but still _your_ party. He grumbles, rolling, but when he doesn’t stir, you nudge him again.

“Okay, okay, I’m up,” he groans, pushing up. When he sees the others, he jumps, cursing. “Jesus-” His eyes go wide, and he scans them. “Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

“ _Holy shit,_ ” he says again.

“We get it,” Dustin says. “The shit is holy.”

“Dude,” Steve says, pushing up further and shaking his head. “You got old.”

“And you still can’t grow facial hair,” Mike says, one side of his mouth quirking up. El smiles, but rolls her eyes.

Steve frowns, and says, “Not cool.” He looks to you, then back at the others. “You know, the whole staring-creepily-at-sleeping-kids thing is much creepier now that you’re old.”

“Call me old _one_ more time, Harrington,” Lucas says.

“He’s just bitter about the gray hairs,” Max says, patting his chest with a smirk.

“Can’t blame us, can you?” Nancy asks. “We have been waiting thirty five years. What’s a little fun for old times sake?”

“As Terry would say,” says Mike, “ _TBT_.” Eleven laughs.

“You’re just lucky I’m not naked,” Steve says pointedly. You snort, rolling your eyes.

“Well, considering you’re _dating_ the person in the bed, all bets are off,” she says. Her gaze flicks to yours, and she smiles before looking to the others. “Alright. Enough is enough. Let’s give the lovebirds time to put pants on.”

* * *

None of the Party brought their kids, but there are significant others waiting in the living room that neither you nor Steve have met. It’s odd, as they immediately greet you with smiles and hugs, having heard stories about you and seen the photos, but neither of you have any familiarity with them.

Will’s husband, Alex Mendez, is a handsome man, and he wears a shirt bearing the name of an animal shelter, which automatically makes him more attractive. He’s not as quiet as Will, but he makes him laugh, and has an infectious smile.

Dustin’s wife, Luna, is another teacher at the middle school. She’s exactly what you expected out of Dustin’s spouse: kind, funny, and warm. She constantly ruffles his hair, making you believe the haircut is new, and she’s used to curls to mess up.

And of course, there is Reagan and Kaitlyn, who you met the night before.

You’re grateful not to meet the kids yet, though you are excited, but even just this commotion is overwhelming. There’s a lot to catch up on, and with a handful of teenagers, it would be even harder.

They all work at the movie theater in town, and seeing as Steve needs to be taken shopping, you plan on just stopping in once you’ve settled back into your world and Steve has begun to settle into his new one.

You keep a constant eye on him, as if waiting for him to crack. You remember how overwhelming it was to go back in time, but you can’t imagine what it’s like to go forward. Whereas you lost technologies and the chaos of the modern world, Steve is being thrown right into it, with no preparation or idea what he’s gotten into.

Overall, he seems happy. He talks to the others and laughs with them and listens as they recount their pasts.

A few hours after they arrive, you slip off to the kitchen, stopping in front of the sink and gripping the edge tightly.

“Hiding?”

You turn, and find Robin standing in the doorway with a cocked brow. You roll your eyes, turning and leaning against the sink, folding your arms. After a beat, your lips pull into a thin line.

“Do you think I…ruined his life?”

“He didn’t exactly give you the choice when he jumped in after you,” she says. “ _You_ didn’t do anything. _He_ decided to come with you.”

“But what if he decides he wants to go back? Or decides he hates it here? Hates me?”

“You’ve met Steve Harrington, right?” She asks. “He’s been in love with you since the moment you broke into his house.” She pauses, and says, “You know, as much as I missed him, and I did miss the dingus, I don’t think he’d have been happy if he stayed.”

“Maybe.”

She shrugs, and says, “Maybe not. We can’t know what might have happened if we made a different choice. And you don’t know what will come out of this one. So, maybe instead of worrying, you should just enjoy the fact that you’re both here, and that it’s good.”

You smile.

“When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve _always_ been wise,” she says, grinning. She crosses the kitchen, wrapping you in a hug. “I missed you, kid.”

“I missed you, too,” you say, and squeeze her tight.

* * *

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Steve asks, sitting cross legged on the bed with an Ipad on his knees. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing with it, but Reagan handed it over for him to mess around on for a bit, and he’s like a toddler with the thing, doing nothing but playing angry birds for the last thirty minutes. He’s a little late to the game, but his delighted noises when he succeeds at a level are too adorable for you to chide him.

You nod, dropping down onto the bed beside him. He sets the Ipad down, and shifts toward you.

“I need to do this on my own. And my parents will already be angry enough with me. I don’t need them putting that on you.”

“And this is the best way to do it?”

Your stomach churns, but you nod, and say, “Lucas and Reagan talked to me about it. They said that if we go the kidnapping route, it starts a manhunt, and we sure as hell can’t tell them the truth. The most believable thing, and the easiest to deal with, is everyone thinking I just…ran off.”

Steve frowns, reaching out and trailing his fingers down your arm, his brows knit together.

“What will people say?”

“That I’m just another idiot teenager who lost their shit, skipped town, and came crawling back.”

“That’s not you,” Steve says, straightening, his frown deepening. He shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. “I hate thinking about anybody giving you shit. You basically saved the world. You didn’t just… _run away_.”

You give him a sympathetic smile, letting a hand settle against his cheek. He leans into it, letting out a breath.

“I know that. You know that. And our friends know that.”

“You had a life here,” Steve says.

“It was never all that good,” you say with a shrug. You smile, and say, “I kinda like this new one.”

A smile tugs on Steve’s lips and he dips toward you, brushing his lips against yours. It’s not a heated kiss, not one with sparks or overwhelming passion, but one of comfort, of knowing that when you walk out the door, you’ll come back and he’ll still be here, waiting for you.

He pulls away, dipping his forehead against yours for a beat before tilting his chin up and kissing you again, softly.

“Come back to me, okay?” He asks. You pull back and smile.

“Always.”

* * *

It takes him a while to get the hang of the thing Reagan gave him - _eyepad_? - but once he figures out how to navigate the thing, he momentarily ditches the game - with the intention to return to the cute little birds, of course - in favor of research.

He’s put off asking the question since you and he stepped through the gate yesterday. He knows that time has passed, a lot of it, and the chance of finding any piece of his old life is slim. Even if his parents are alive and well and living in Hawkins, he can’t exactly go knock on their door, and he isn’t sure he’d want to, anyway.

Well, that’s not completely true. If he’s honest with himself, he misses his mom. Not the way she was when he left, quiet and timid and checked out, but the mom she was when he was younger. She’d tucked him in and read stories and sling him up on her shoulders to run around the house.

He finds a few articles about his disappearance, but it was chalked up to be just another case of a teenage runaway. He follows those trails, and finds information about his father first.

Richard ‘Dick’ Harrington - aptly named - is alive and well and living in Seattle, where he moved after the death of his wife in 2012.

Steve’s stomach drops, and he lets the black rectangle fall out of his hands, the bright screen hidden by the bed. Unexpected tears well in his eyes, sadness rocking into him and settling heavily atop his limbs.

He knew what it meant when he made the plan to follow you through the gate. He knew what he was giving up, what he was risking. And he’d make the same choice again, and again, and again. But that doesn’t make the loss any easier to bear.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying on the bed when you come in, tears raking rivers down his cheeks, but when the door opens and you step in, your face is as red as he imagines his is.

He pushes to a sitting position, and he doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong: it didn’t go well with your parents, as expected.

“Hey,” he says softly. You close the door behind you, frowning at his glistening eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, voice thick with tears.

“My mom’s dead,” he says. “You?”

“My parents hate me,” you say. You cross the room to stand in front of him, hands settling on the sides of his face, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”

He lets out a breath, leaning forward and pressing his forehead into your chest. Your arms wind around him, and you duck your chin, burying your face in his hair.

“Your parents don’t hate you,” he murmurs, lifting his head to meet your gaze. “They’re just angry. They’ll get over it.” His hands settle on your waist, brows furrowing. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

You close your eyes, nodding, and kick off your shoes, pulling out of his grip to climb onto the bed. Steve shifts back, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you down beside him. You curl together as closely as possible, all tangled limbs and tangled blankets.

You’ve both lost different things, but lost nonetheless, and there is nothing to be done about any of it. It is what it is, and all you can do is move forward. And so, you hold each other and cry for all the things you can’t fix or get back, because that’s all you can do, because the only move you can make is to be there for each other.

* * *

“You gonna stay in there and stare at yourself, or are you going to come out and show me?” You call, sitting back on the small bench outside the waiting room. Steve makes a dismissive noise from inside, and opens the door to the small cubicle, stepping out in a pair of faded jeans and a maroon tee with the Dr. Pepper logo on it. You’d love to get him to the mall eventually, because - and you will not be admitting this to him out loud - the potential for jeans - and ones that fit very well - is unlimited at the mall.

It’s hard not to think of him as your very own dress up doll, but, in essence, he is. Not that you’re some big fashionista, but you know the trends well enough to style him and make him look like a normal boy from 2019.

The only thing you refuse to adjust is the hair: guys may not wear it that big and fluffy anymore, but you adore it, and won’t push him toward a barber anytime soon.

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “I like it.”

He grins, turning to look at himself in the mirror inside the room, giving you a wonderful shot of his backside; you’ve lost a lot, and are warranted a few sneaky looks. He is yours after all; that thought is still thrilling, after six weeks of preparing to leave him behind.

He’s here, and he’s yours, and he’s grinning like a goof as he poses in the mirror, and though the world is broken, at this moment, it’s beautiful, too.

“I gotta say,” he says, “I’m a big fan of Mega-Target.”

“ _Super_ Target,” you correct. He waves a hand dismissively, and tugs a bit on the tee shirt. He catches you ogling him in the mirror and turns, cocking a brow.

“And you were calling _me_ out for staring.”

“I was _not_ staring.”

“You were one _thousand_ percent checking out my ass.”

You arch your brows, pushing to your feet.

“And if I was?”

“If you were, I’d say, _good call_.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, and gesture to the dressing room.

“Alright, Romeo. You’ve got like eight more shirts in there, and yes, you _are_ trying on the cut off shorts, because I think they’ll look good, and I make the rules.”

Steve crinkles his nose.

“Fine. But I’m getting the Star Wars shirt, too.” He turns, cocking a brow. “Which, I’m like, really behind on. We need to marathon.”

“Oh, just wait until I introduce you to the wonderful world of Netflix. They basically _coined_ binge-watching.”

“ _Netflicks_?”

“It’s got a million movies and TV shows. Right on the Ipad.”

“On that little thing? How does it do that?”

“Honestly? Im not convinced it isn’t magic.”

Steve grins.

“Well,” he says, “good to know this world is a little like the old one.”

“Magic, minus the monsters.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me.”

You smile, and step toward him, flicking the price tag away from his neck.

“This world isn’t so bad, is it?”

He pulls you toward him, grinning wickedly as he tugs you back into the dressing room, pushing the door shut behind you.

“No,” he murmurs against your lips, “it’s not so bad.”


	3. part 3

The Party’s kids all work at the movie theater in town, and as you and Steve push through the doors, you immediately recognize a few of them from around town, in grades above and below you.

The theater is deserted this time of night, especially on a weekday, so the eight kids linger around the snack counter. They’re easily identifiable, all standing carbon copies - though adjusted - of their parents.

Terry and Sara have their Mike’s dark hair, and El’s eyes and intense expression. Will’s eyes shine through Stella’s, her nose a similar shape. Jason has the same playful grin Lucas wore as a child, with a smattering of Max’s freckles on his skin. Steve and Eliza’s curls are reminiscent of Dustin’s, though Eliza’s are far wilder. Barbara’s stature is Nancy’s to a T, and she stands next to Kaitlyn behind the counter with Stella. The others wear the same polo uniform shirts, but seem to have drifted from their positions in favor of chatting.

“You made it!” Kaitlyn calls, noticing you and Steve first, her lips curling up in a wide grin. She gestures for you to approach, and Steve slips a hand in yours, the only indication that he’s nervous. He has no reason to be, but you can’t help but share the sentiment; in these kid’s eyes, you are heroes. In reality, you’re still kids yourself.

“And here I had money on you two being some…fever dream of our parents, or something,” Jason says. Eliza, leaning into the counter beside him, rolls her eyes and elbows him.

“Because if anyone did hallucinatory drugs, it was our parents? Yeah. Try again.”

“Drugs are a lot more believable than the truth,” you say, shrugging.

“Either way, it’s awesome to meet you.” Eliza smiles, reaching forward to shake your hands. The others go through the introductions, and you notice Steve’s attention linger on the younger Steve - Steve H. - with a soft expression. He hasn’t spoken about it, but you know how honored he is to have someone named after him.

“So…you’re really from the past,” Terry asks Steve. “Like….really.”

“ _Really_ really,” Steve says.

“The whole town has been busting ass looking for you,” Steve H says, nodding at you. A lopsided grin tugs on his lips. “I made a pretty penny off the bets about whether you’d come back.”

You snort, and ask, “Isn’t that cheating?”

He shrugs.

“It’s absolutely cheating,” Barbara scolds, to which Steve H sticks his tongue out at her like a child.

“Only if you get caught,” pipes Jason, and Barbara rolls her eyes with a tiny smile. Their behavior is indicative of a lifetime together, like littermates. They’re from different bloodlines, but they grew up on the same stories, with each other.

It’s almost sad to watch. You know well enough that staying in the past wasn’t an option for you, but you sure as hell thought about it. You thought about what it would be like to live out the rest of your time with them, to grow old with them. To leave the future behind and let it catch up to you naturally, the way it might have if you were always from that time.

Had things gone differently, it might be you and Steve’s kids chatting with the Party’s children. But things aren’t different, so it’s you and Steve, trying to catch up on thirty-five lost years. 

You turn to look between Terry, Sara, and Stella, thinking of Robin’s explanations, when she’d said, “The only trace of the Upside Down left is in their gifts.”

“Not to be…blunt,” Steve says, “but is it true that you three have…”

“Abilities?” Sara finishes.

“Creepy powers?” Asks Steve H.

“Try to staunch the jealousy, Henderson,” Kaitlyn says, and Barb and Stella try to hide their laughter. Once Stella has regained her composure, she meets your eyes with a smile, nodding.

“We do. Terry and Sara kind of…split their mom’s powers down the middle. Terry’s our telepath, and Sara’s the telekinetic.”

“In English, please,” Eliza says, though it’s clearly for her brother’s sake and his furrowed brows. He flashes her a grin, to which her brow twitches, some silent communication passing between them.

“Basically, I can get into people’s heads,” Terry says. “Sara can move stuff.”

“Move stuff?” Sara snorts. “Way to play it down.”

“Oh, we’re not having this argument again, are we?” Barb asks, rolling her eyes.

“Stella is like…our powerhouse,” Sara says, taking her sister’s thread and continuing to unroll it. “Our parents tried to figure it out for years, but the working theory is that…something inside Will Byers was, like, changed by what happened to him, but it stayed dormant. When Stella was born, it activated in her.”

“Pretty sick,” Steve H says, nodding in approval. Stella averts her gaze, lips pressed together.

“Sometimes she’s a human stick of dynamite,” Jason says with a grin. “It’s dope.”

“She nearly burned down the football field,” Kaitlyn says.

“But she _didn’t_ ,” he says. A tiny smile tugs on Stella’s lips.

“Yeah,” she says. “I _didn’t_.”

The door to the theater dings open, and the kids stiffen and look in the direction of the newcomers. Their awareness and observance is so reminiscent of their parents - of you and Steve, too - that you wonder whether or not, just because the Upside Down died, it’s truly gone. From the snapped attention of these teenagers, it seems the roots stretch farther out that anyone ever expected.

These kids have never fought the Upside Down or its monsters, but they seem to expect to, one day.

“Oh, great,” Eliza grumbles. “These clowns again.”

“Fucking suits,” Jason curses, shaking his head. They adopt more official facades, half moving behind the counter and pretending to do things, the others grabbing dustpans and mops and milling about, remaining close enough to the counter to talk to one another.

You and Steve are on the defensive, backs pressed to the snack counter, eyes locked on the men in suits - three of them, dripping with an air of supposed dignity.

“They can’t be…” Steve murmurs.

“Of course not. It’s been over thirty years.”

“Right,” he says, but it’s clear neither of you believes it. “Right.” He turns to face the counter, gripping the edges tightly. “You know those guys?” He asks Barbara.

Her lips purse, and she inclines her head.

“Terry and Sara are pretty sure they’re watching them. Stella, too, maybe. And Kait saw some guys in suits drive past her house.” She frowns. “They don’t say anything, or come too close, but there’s something…off about them.”

“Have you told your parents?” You ask.

Jason leans in beside Barbara against the counter, cocking a brow.

“You serious?” He asks. “They’d just freak out.”

“We’re just…keeping an eye out for now,” Barbara explains. “If we need to tell them, we will.”

“And until then….” Terry says, a sly grin playing on her lips. She pauses in front of you and Steve with a dustpan and broom, flicking a gaze at the suits who are focused on the handful of old arcade games in the corner with an intensity that screams of falsity.

“Terry, no,” Barbara says. Terry looks to Sara, who frowns, but nods.

“Sara says yes,” Terry says.

“Sara has questionable judgment,” Barbara says. Sara only grins and leans into the counter, tapping her fingers against the glass top.

“You want to do the honors?” Terry asks her sister. Sara grins, straightening and looking in the direction of the men in suits. Her brows furrow slightly in concentration, and a beat later, the two arcade games spark and sputter, making the suits lunge back. Sara quickly swipes the blood off her nose.

The moment they spin in your direction, everyone moves back into nonchalance-mode, fake sweeping or checking popcorn tubs or pretending to talk to each other. Steve keeps a vice grip on your hand, for which you’re intensely grateful.

“Guys, I don’t think-” Steve starts.

“Stella, you’re up,” Sara says. Stella frowns, indecision on her features.

“I won’t be able to control it,” she says.

“Good,” says Steve H.

“Give ‘em hell,” Eliza says. Stella’s frown deepens, but quickly evaporates, and calmness coats her expression, a blankness to her eyes.

She inclines her head, blood already dripping out of one nostril.

“Oops,” she whispers in a tone that is nowhere close to apologetic, and the suits fall forward, as if shoved by an invisible force. They smack hard into the tile, exclaiming in pain as they try to collect their bearings.

“That’s enough,” Steve snaps, and Stella shakes the glaze out of her eyes, shame flitting across her features.

“It’s not enough,” Terry says. “It’ll never be enough. Not if they are who we think they are. Not after what they’ve done.”

* * *

Steve is picked up from the theater by Reagan about an hour after the suits pick themselves up and crawl away, shooting glares at the kids feigning innocence inside. Seeing as he’s officially dead, Reagan and Lucas are bringing him into the station to help work out some kind of new identity. At the very least, find him a social security number so that he exists as _someone_ , even if that someone isn’t him.

You stay to talk to the kids, curious about the suits and how often they lurk around. According to Stella, they’ve been popping up the last few months, but over the last week have been nearly constant. Like they’re looking for something, or waiting for something, she said.

Your stomach churned at her words; something deep inside of you felt like it knew something, like it was piecing things together before letting you in on them.

You finally leave the theater at dusk, heading out into the cool night. The streets are quiet, but the buzz of electricity and technology is louder than it was in 1985, and it slithers in the silence, almost a ringing in your ears as you reach the end of the block.

Just as you turn the corner, a man steps out in front of you and blocks your path. You suck in a breath, lunging backward, but the man continues walking toward you calmly, an odd smile on his face.

“You look just like the photo,” he says. “It’s quite remarkable.”

Your stomach drops, fear rising in your chest and threatening to drag you under. He knows - he can’t know, he shouldn’t know. He knows.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” you stammer, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smile widens, and he says, “Oh, but I think you do. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He knows; he knows who you are, and he knows where you came from, and he knows that you mucked up the timeline. He has to. If he’s seen that photo - and you know exactly what photo he refers to - he’s the leftovers of the scientists from the lab, or some offshoot of them. If he’s here, and he knows who you are, he can’t be a good guy.

“I’m running late,” you say, voice rising in volume in the hopes of attracting attention, but the street is empty. “My boyfriend is expecting me.”

“Oh, is he?” The suit says, picking up his pace and cutting you off before you can turn and bolt the other way. He has you pinned between him and the wall, and the sick smile on his face confirms he knows it. “See, we’re real interested in him, too.”

“Seriously, whoever you think I am-”

“That’s the conundrum, isn’t it?” The man interrupts. “We know who you are, and yet, at the same time…have absolutely no clue. A paradox.”

Anger coils in your gut, memories of the Demorgorgon’s claws slicing through your belly flickering in your mind. If this man works for the same people that opened the gate the first time, that’s the kind of world he wants; one where monsters are commonplace, where an entire parallel universe is weaponized.

“Tell us how you did it,” the man continues.

“Seriously, man, I have no idea-”

“Lies!” He snarls, anger flashing in his eyes. His sudden rage makes you flinch, and you step back, shoulder blades slamming painfully into the brick wall. Your fear is a noose slowly tightening around your neck, and you’re not sure you’ll last another few minutes beneath it.

“Tell us how you opened it,” he says, anger swapped for that unsettling calm. The hairs rise on the back of your neck, every instinct screaming for you to run.

“I didn’t open anything,” you say, gaze flicking around the sidewalk in search of the best escape route. To the right, a dimly lit street that will lead toward the police station. To the left, the darker streets that will lead you to Robin and Reagan’s house; to Steve.

The right is a safer bet, but all you want to do is find Steve and curl up in his arms and pretend that the darkness in the world will dissipate when the sun rises. The left is where Steve is, and if you can make it far enough into the dark, you might even be able to ditch the suit.

Despite the fear, there’s something oddly comforting about being back in the chaos. Like, ever since you got back, you’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and even if it’s heavy, you’re just grateful to see it fall.

Of course, this world is as broken as the one you took Steve from. Of course, you couldn’t see it before. And of course, the Party - and now their children - are still in the thick of it.

“Just tell us how you did it,” the man says, “and we will leave your friends alone.”

“Because bothering them has ended _so_ well for your people in the past,” you spit, and the man rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively.

“The past is in the past,” he says. You narrow your eyes, gaze flicking to the darkness to your left, and you shift onto the balls of your toes, mentally gearing yourself up and shoving your fear down as deep as you can.

“Wanna know what I’ve learned?” You ask. “The past is right in front of us, too. And if you don’t accept it, you’re going to walk _straight_ off its cliff.”

Then you bolt straight at him, ramming into his shoulder and knocking him off balance, veering to the left as soon as he stumbles. His growls of frustration follow you, as do his footsteps, but you have the home field advantage; you may be out of touch, but you still grew up on these streets.

If you have any advantages, it’s that one: you know Hawkins. Not just this Hawkins, either. You know them all. 1985, 2019, the Upside Down. Maybe that’s what makes the suits so afraid.

* * *

Back at Reagan and Robin’s house, you find the Kaitlyn, Steve, Reagan, and Robin settled on the couch watching TV. They’re all tucked comfortably with blankets and pillows, and their ease is so starkly different to the panic still coursing through your veins you feel as if you’re the only sober one in a room full of drunks.

At your entrance, Steve’s gaze finds yours, and he notices the tension in your body language immediately. He’s off the couch in an instant, telling the girls goodnight and jogging to catch you as you head up the stairs.

“Hey,” he says, touching your arm at the top of the staircase, moving in front of you with furrowed brows. “Everything okay?”

You press your lips together, scrambling to string the words into something coherent.

_They know; they know about me and you and everyone and everything, and they’re coming, and they won’t stop, maybe they can’t be stopped._

Just minutes ago, Steve was settled on a couch and laughing along with a dorky TV show. He looked content; he looked happy. They all did. And if you speak the truth, you’ll burst that bubble and bring acid raining down on everyone’s heads.

So, for tonight, you decide to keep the peace.

The suits and the scientists will be there tomorrow, and the next day. They’re in your past, they’re in your present, and they’ll inevitably be in your future.

“I’m okay,” you say. “Just a long day. How was the station?”

He shrugs. “Long.”

You smile, and loop your arms around his waist, leaning into his chest. His arms wind around you and he ducks his chin to press a kiss to your head.

“Going _back to the future_ really takes it out of you, huh?” He murmurs. It’s such a ridiculous, dorky joke that it momentarily makes you forget about the suits and the scientists. You pull away, shaking your head.

“Absolutely fucking _not_ ,” you say. “I need an apology for how cheesy that joke was.”

Steve grins, waggling his brows, ducking in to kiss your temple.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he says, mirroring your tone. You snort, rolling your eyes and lifting your gaze to his.

“Have I told you how glad I am that you’re here?”

Steve’s brows twitch, and he smiles and says, “Tell me again.”

And you do, in every word that you can, in every way you know how. That fear that yawned open during the encounter earlier rings warnings in the back of your mind, reminding you that the fight is not over, that the battle isn’t done; that you have a hell of a lot to lose.


	4. part 4

_In the dream that wasn’t a dream, Stella led you through the darkness with a tight grip on your arm, not sparing a glance at the dead creature behind her. She was a few years younger than you, but her movement and confidence were that of someone older, someone wiser. Half the reason you didn’t protest when she grabbed you was due to the confidence alone; the other half was her having saved your ass from whatever the hell tried to attack you._

_“Where are we going?” You asked, sneaking glances behind you, heart hammering in your chest. Stella ignored you, slamming to a stop in front of a large tree. It was nothing special, merely a tree among thousands of other trees in a large forest, but something about it made Stella stop._

_“This is it,” she said. She turned to face you, her brows furrowing. Something about the gaze was familiar, though you hadn’t met either her or her father before then, but it was like a different kind of knowing, like deja vu, but rather than something you’ve done, something you will do. Like a glitch in the timeline. And for whatever reason - maybe the familiarity, maybe her courage - you trusted her. “This is where you open it. Or opened it.”_

_“What? I don’t understand-”_

_Her expression went serious._

_“You won’t remember this. I can’t let you. Not until you’re far enough along. But…I’ve seen what happens,” she said, shaking her head, light brown curls bouncing as she moved. “The only way to make sure you’re ready for round two is to put you through round one.”_

_“I don’t understand-”_

_“I know. I know. Just-just listen, okay? This won’t make sense to you now, but it will later.” She took a breath, nodding, as if steeling herself. “Find Steve Harrington. He’ll get you where you need to go. He’ll help you get back here.”_

_“Harrington?” You asked. “What does the sheriff-”_

_“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a dick, I just, I need you to listen.” Red flamed in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m going to make you quiet, now, okay? I just…I don’t have much time before those suits find me, and you’re the only one that can do this.”_

_You frowned, but when you tried to speak, your lips didn’t budge. Stella continued._

_“Find the others. And once you’ve done what you need to, come back.” She shook her head. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re the only chance we’ve got.”_

_Your mouth unfroze, and you asked, “Chance? For what?”_

_She smiled sadly, and gestured to the tree._

_“Open the gate. And make another. I’ll make sure it’s in 1985, but if you don’t open it up, I can’t make it send you anywhere. Do you understand?”_

_You shouldn’t have; perhaps she was messing with your mind then, too. But you understood, partly. You knew what you needed to do, though you didn’t know why, or how you could do it._

_There were certainly stranger things than that to focus on; you nodded._

_“You’re the only one who can keep it closed,” she said. “You just need to learn how. And you can’t do it here.”_

_As if in a trance, you turned, stopping in front of the tree and kneeling at the base. You stretched a hand out, fingers brushing the bark, and like magic, it shimmered beneath your touch, softening and giving way to a mucusy, sticky substance. The hole grew, and grew, and grew, until it told you to stop, and you pulled your hand away._

_You looked back at Stella, who nodded through glazed eyes._

_“Please come back,” she said._

_“I will,” you said._

_Then you climbed through the hole in the tree. When it spit you out on the other side, you stumbled forward as far as possible, finally collapsing to the ground when a porch light flickered far away in sight. Stella’s face - her words, her presence, all of it - slipped away. Like a newborn losing all memory of where it’s come from, reborn into a dark, older world._

_And when you woke, you were someplace else entirely. Sometime else._

* * *

Your first destination after you wake from the dream - the memory - is Stella. Stella, who you had no idea you’d ever met. Stella, who pretended never to have met you. Stella, who sent you back in time over six weeks ago and changed the course of history.

Steve is headed back to the station, luckily, to pick up a few documents: false but technically real IDs. You sneak out once he’s gone, and head for the town’s animal shelter. You’ve been a few times in the past, and have heard of the owners, but before now, you didn’t have a personal connection to them.

With school out for summer by now, Stella should be volunteering at the shelter, according to Kaitlyn, which she does most mornings with her fathers.

You push through the front door, and behind the desk, Will Byers lifts his head from where he’s standing and scrawling on a piece of paper. He smiles, and laughter lines pinch across his face, telling of a happy life. Which, with everything he went through, he deserves more than most.

“Hey,” he says. He sets down his paperwork, coming around the counter with an easy smile on his lips. “Don’t tell me Robin and Reagan agreed to let you bring an animal home. Kaitlyn has been trying it for years.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and say, “Actually, I was looking for Stella.”

Will nods, and glances over his shoulder down the long hall leading to the kennels. He meets your gaze, and jerks a chin in the direction of the hall.

“She should be in the kennels with the dogs. Feel free to head on back.”

“Thanks,” you say. Will nods.

“Anytime,” he says. “And, if you are looking to adopt, I’ll waive the fee. Just don’t tell Robin and Reagan.”

You snort, and nod, heading down the hall, pushing through the door to the kennels. The barking of dogs rings in a cacophony around you, growing in noise at your entrance, and you go slowly down the aisle, brushing your fingers along the grates and being brushed by wet noses.

At the end of the aisle of kennels, Stella is closing the last of the gates after setting a bowl of food down inside. She coos to the dog inside before turning to meet your gaze with a smile that falters the moment she realizes who she’s looking at.

“Hey,” she says, her tone near questioning; it’s clear now that Stella was behind all this, was the one who told you to go back. But the real question is why, and how.

“I had a dream last night,” you say. “But it wasn’t a dream, was it?”

Stella purses her lips, and says, “Why don’t you follow me out here? I’ll explain everything.” You frown, but follow her through the doors at the end of the aisles, leading to a small back area full of grass and toys. Two cats linger in one corner, curled up on their backs in the sun, and in the main grassy area, a handful of older dogs play and lounge about. Stella crosses to a small bench at the other end of the yard, and you sit down beside her. A few dogs job up for attention, which you both give, and Stella is seemingly grateful to have somewhere else to put her hands and eyes as she speaks.

“I can hear it. The Upside Down. I’ve always been able to feel it, but as I got older, I could hear it, too. It wants me to do things.” She turns up her chin. “But I won’t.” She looks to you, lips pulling thin. “I’m sorry. There’s not, like, an easy way to explain this, and I’ve been trying to work out the words for weeks….but…I can _manipulate_ time, like, in relation to the Upside Down. Because it’s still alive, _weak_ but alive, I can…tap into it, if that makes sense?”

You nod, and Stella continues.

“I kept seeing flashes of the creatures back in 1985. And then, I saw _you_ , and it was like the Upside Down was trying to _tell_ me something. It wanted you to open the gate on this side. It wants to get back into the world.”

“Me? What the hell does this have to do with me?”

She crinkles her nose, and says, “Honestly? I don’t even know. All I know is that you’re the only person, besides El, who can open a gate. And even with Eleven, there had to be present energy for her to do it. But that gate in the woods, the one you opened, it came out of nowhere. You made it out of nothing.”

“Why me? What does this…” You shake your head. Stella flashes an apologetic smile.

“For the record, it doesn’t make much sense to me either,” she says, “but…I thought, that if I sent you back - if you sent yourself back - you’d know how to fix things when you got back here. I thought I could…kill two birds with one stone. Save the others from the leftover Demogorgon in 1985, and…show you what to do when everything came back.”

Your stomach sinks, her words swirling inside you like a growing tornado, blasting the hinges off the doors and sweeping the feet out from under you. The pieces of the puzzle slide into place and make the image visible.

You’ve spent all this time under the assumption that it was all some big, random, wacky mistake. You thought you were dragged through the hole by a monster. You thought you were nothing more than a bystander, someone tossed into the chaos and expected to swim.

But you aren’t expected to swim. You’re supposed to drain the whole goddamn pool.

All that you went through, the pain and loss and time, was all just you making your way to the batting cage. Now, you’re holding a bat you have no idea how to swing; you didn’t even know you were holding it in the first place.

“When it comes back?” You ask. “So…the suits. The man that stopped me.”

Stella’s eyes go wide, and you wince, averting your gaze. With a sigh, you tell her about the man who cornered you outside the theater and claimed to know you; claimed that they needed you, or that you could do something.

You didn’t know what he meant, but you’re starting to understand. How it’s possible still evades you, but for some reason, your hands have the ability to open up the gate to the evil world that tried to kill Hawkins in the 80’s.

Stella nods, jumping in to explain.

“I wasn’t sure until you showed back up, and the suits came in the next day. Three of them, and they weren’t trying to hide. They know you’re here.”

“But how? How do they even know I was _there_?”

“The polaroid,” she says. “There’s one photo of one random person that no one can explain. I don’t know they figured out the connection. Maybe when you went missing this time around. But they sure as hell know what you did.”

“I don’t even know what I did,” you say, exasperated. “I woke up behind Steve’s house. I don’t remember making the gate. And…even if I did…when I get near it, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how I opened it, or came back through. I don’t know how to do it again.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the suits got that memo,” she says, one side of her mouth quirking up. You snort a laugh, but it's humorless.

“You think?”

Her smile falters, expression turning serious.

“Everyone thinks the Upside Down died when you and the others killed the heart. And, the Upside Down of 1985, that one is gone. But…it’s still lurking. _Waiting_. I didn’t even know what it was waiting _for_ , until it showed me you.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do with that?”

“Hell if I know,” Stella says. “I was just the messenger. And I fucked up the message a little.” A sly grin tugs on her lips, reminiscent of the rebellious attitude swirling inside your own gut at each mention of the suits and scientists and Upside Down.

Stella Byers was clearly born to be a tool for the Mind Flayer, with a direct tether to her head. But she’s not a tool; she’s a person. And because she’s a person, she chose to skew the image and try and flip the script.

It’s you and a gifted sixteen year old against an evil parallel universe. At least the odds are consistent.

“So…you just don’t open a gate. How hard could that be?” Stella asks.

You purse your lips. Stella Byers may be the most powerful individual you’ve ever encountered, but she’s still a child. You and Steve and every other kid that touched the Upside Down lost their innocence a long time ago. These kids, though, are still _kids_. Their monsters are from stories; yours are from memories.

It is never simple when the Upside Down is evolved, and only that is certain.

* * *

Robin and Reagan’s backyard is unfenced and stretches into a small patch of trees, all short and sparsely spaced but providing a nice and large yard area. When you get back from the shelter, you sneak around the house to the backyard, stopping where the grass meets the first tree.

The tree is thin and small, barely holding itself up against the wind. You stretch a hand out, fingers pressed firmly against the bark.

It feels silly just to do it, but the longer you rest your hand there - the longer you let your thoughts swirl around the Upside Down - the more comfortable it becomes. The wind picks up and hums around you and every other noise in the small forest dies away until it’s only you and the wind and the humming that grows louder by the second, until it’s not in the wind but in the very air, piercing your eardrums and shaking your bones.

You feel the plane _give_ beneath your touch, the bark beneath your fingers softening.

“Hey!” Steve calls. “Since when are you a birdwatcher?”

You wrench your hand back and the humming ceases, the forest resuming its cycle of life around you. The tree is just a tree and the bark is just bark and the world is still the world.

You turn to face him, shaking off the adrenaline rocketing through your veins and cocking a brow.

“Comedian,” you say. “Where’s your Netflix special!”

He frowns, and you force the last of whatever you felt when you touched that tree out of your veins before crossing the grass to him.

“Never mind.”

“I didn’t know you were home,” he says. He glances behind you, lips turning down slightly. His gaze flicks to yours. “What were you doing out here?”

You try to push the words off your tongue - the warning, the explanation - but it gets stuck behind your teeth.

“I…nothing. Just thinking.”

He steps closer and slips his arms around your waist, tugging you closer.

“Everything okay?” He asks. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You nod, forcing a smile onto your lips, an image of him saying my parents are gone flickering behind your eyelids. Steve Harrington lost a lot to come here with you, and it was supposed to be over. There was supposed to be peace. This was supposed to be your happy ending.

Now, all of that is shaking on a tightrope.

“I’m good. Just…still weird to be back.”

Steve’s brows twitch, and he lets out a breath, nodding.

“Yeah. I get that,” he says. He gives you a sly smile. “Pretty sure I broke Robin’s watch thingy. The pear one.”

You snort, wrapping your arms around him and rest your cheek against his chest. His heartbeat is calm beneath your ear, and just that alone plucks some of the fear and tension out of you.

“The Apple Watch?” You ask.

“Yeah. That thing.”

“You drop it in the sink, or something?” You ask, pulling back to look at him. He gives you a sheepish smile, gaze flicking away for a beat before he looks at you.

“I was trying to read my heart rate. I think I did it too many times.”

You frown, brows furrowing, before understanding dawns. A laugh bubbles up and out of you, and you shake your head, a hand coming up to pat his chest lightly.

“Oh, it’s dead!”

He crunches his face up and groans, grumbling, “I knew it.”

“What?” You ask. “Oh. No, it’s not broken. It’s dead. Like, it needs to charge.”

He cocks a brow, shaking his head, and says, “That makes no sense.”

“Welcome to the 21st century, love,” you say, waggling your brows. His lips curl up into a smile, and he tugs you closer.

You’ll tell him. You have to tell him.

“What do you say we just…ignore everything? Just for one night?” He asks. “Pretend to be normal.”

Your unspoken words churn inside you, but the guilt for what Steve has lost burns stronger. He can have one more night of peace. He can have one more night before finding out the truth about you, about everything.

Maybe it’s selfish to keep it from him; maybe you don’t care.

“I think we can manage it,” you say. “If we try _really_ hard.”

He snorts, ducking to press a kiss to your lips.

“So,” he says, “what would we do if we were normal 2019 kids?”

“Honestly? Probably go see a movie, or go out to eat, or find some dark alley where our parents aren’t to jump each other’s bones.”

Steve waggles his brows.

“What’s this alley you mention?”

You roll your eyes, stepping back. You say, “You realize your parents are gone and mine kicked me out, right? Why find a gross alley when we could just go up to our room.”

“ _Our_ room,” he says. He snorts. “How domestic of us.”

“Oh yeah. Jumping through time holes, killing monsters. We’re a real Ben and Leslie.”

He frowns. “A who?”

“Add it to the binge list.” You grin. “Did you ever think we’d end up sharing the guest room at Robin’s house? With her kid and wife?”

“Nah, I figured if I ever lived with Robin, it’d be in a shitty apartment that we shared with rats.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Bit of a step up, huh?”

Steve grins, and says, “I’m pretty happy with where we ended up. You?”

This morning’s visit with Stella pricks at the back of your mind, but you’ve pushed it into the off-limits zone for the night. You deserve one night; Steve deserves one night.

“You hog the covers…” you say with a smile, “but _yes_.”

His hands shift to your waist, fingers lightly gripping your hips, and he leans close to murmur, “You know, I don’t think I ever got a fashion show.”

“Of?”

“When I came back to the future-” he pauses to see if you’ve gotten the reference - you have, and narrow your eyes slightly, “-I was promised you and all the yoga pants the world could offer.”

“Oh, you were promised, were you?” You ask. “You sure you didn’t just blindly follow me through a hole in the universe, risking your life?”

He purses his lips, pretending to think. The expression is so ridiculous - and so close to breaking into a laugh - it’s near impossible not to kiss him again right then.

“I thought it was _noble_.”

“It was noble as hell,” you say, “but also, stupid.”

He cocks a brow, and says, “You don’t sound mad.”

“You’re very hard to stay mad at.”

He shrugs. “One of my gifts.”

You roll your eyes, and hum, “Hmmmm.” You sling your arms loosely around his neck, fingers curling around the hairs at the nape of his neck. “You and the yoga pants.”

He steps back, gesturing up and down you, shaking his head.

“I mean…come on,” he says. He makes a face, shrugging a shoulder. “Who said you could be _that_ hot?”

You snort, but step back up to him, looping your fingers through his belt loops and tugging him against you.

“You know,” he says, “Kaitlyn’s at work, and Robin and Reagan just left for dinner. We’ve got the house to ourselves for a few hours.”

You cock a brow, grinning, and ask, “What _ever_ will we do?”

“We could always spend hours making blueprints while you make doe eyes at me again,” Steve says. “That was pretty fun the first time.”

“Oh, _you_ were making doe eyes!”

“ _I_ was responding to _yours_ ,” he says. His lips turn up into a smile, and he flicks a glance back at the house. When he meets your gaze, some of the humor has given to a slow burning fire.

“So…” He says. You grin.

“Race you?” You ask.

Steve cocks a brow.

“Real mature,” he says. His grin turns mischievous. “Ready, set, _go_.” He turns and bolts back for the house, and you chase after him like you’re innocent, like you haven’t seen all that you’ve seen, like you really are just some couple from 2019.

The truth is far more complicated than that, but for tonight, you’re content to operate within the lie. For now, it’s safe to stay. For now, it’s safe in general.


	5. part 5

William Butler Yeats once wrote, “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold,” in a poem. It’s supposed to be a warning, or perhaps just a statement of reality. It was just a poem from class, one of many your English teachers forced on you, but the words stick in your head and resurface now. 

_The center cannot hold._

You’ve learned by now that Yeats was speaking the truth. Your problem lies in your interpretation of your own life; of your belief that things had already fallen apart, and they couldn’t possibly do it again. 

Nobody focuses on the end of the poem: they just grab onto the parts they like. But the ending is often the most important. 

After things fall apart comes a question, the poet pondering what monster is headed toward birth. That’s the significant part: what comes next. 

You were under the assumption that the monsters were already here, but the truth is never that simple. Maybe they really have been chugging toward you all this time. 

The center cannot hold. And it doesn’t. 

* * *

Steve comes out of the bathroom, steam spilling out behind him, his sweats hanging low on his hips. He towels off his hair, shaking water droplets, and the action is so reminiscent of the night you first kissed back in 1985 you have to force yourself to look away. 

This isn’t 1985 anymore, and your problems are somehow bigger than they once were. There will be no kiss to take it all away. 

Steve notices the expression on your face and frowns, hanging his towel on its hook and snatching a soft tee out of the dresser, tugging it over his head and crossing the room to drop down onto the bed beside you. You push into a seated position, gathering the blankets up in your lap. 

“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says. He pauses. “Which, honestly, you could have. I wouldn’t be shocked.”

Your lips quirk up in a tiny smile, and you shake your head. 

“I…I need to tell you something.”

He frowns, brows furrowing. His default assumption is always the worst - he’s always prepared for the worst-case scenario - and you can see him pushing his walls in place to catch him when he falls. 

“When I first woke up behind your house, I had no idea why or how I was there. I just figured…a Demogorgon got through the gate and dragged me, or something. And even when we realized I could unlock the gate, I still didn’t understand it.” You take a breath. “Then we came back, and I thought it was all over, and then we saw those guys at the theater, and…” You look at Steve, tugging the blankets tighter against you. “I remembered something. I remembered how I got to your world.” 

Steve’s frown deepens, and he asks, “What did you see?” 

You avert your gaze and quickly tell him about the dream you had, the one with Stella and the gate and her assurance that only you could stop it, and about going to see her, about what she told you and what she’s seen. 

“So.” Steve leans forward, his brows knitted together. “Let me get this straight. For some reason, you can open and close gates to the Upside Down, but you don’t know why. And Stella can…time travel, but only through the Upside Down?”

You nod, and Steve continues. 

“And…she sent you back to 1985 because the same group of people from before is trying to do the same thing now.”

“She said it was like killing two birds with one stone,” you say. Steve nods, pushing to his feet, his expression twisted and indecipherable. 

“So, she sends you back, all of us figure out how to close the gate, then you come back to 2019 to…do it all again? Close the gate in case they get it open?”

You nod. Steve snorts and says, “That’s a twisted ass training program. 

“That night in the woods, before I went through the gate the first time, Stella saved me from a demo dog. Or, something like that. It was definitely one of the Upside Down’s creatures, but I’ve never seen it before.” Your stomach churns, and you shake your head, flicking a glance at Steve. “I think Stella knows more than she’s letting on. I think she sees something really bad coming, and she’s scared. The suits, the gate, me, her, maybe even Terry and Sara, it’s like its all…connected.” 

Steve paces in front of the bed, pausing and facing you. His eyes narrow, and he inclines his head. 

“How long have you known all this?” He asks. 

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you look away, pressing your lips together. Guilt builds a nest in your gut, heavy and stinging as it twists inside you. You should have told him from the beginning, and you know that, but every time you tried to tell him, you saw the way he looked when he realized he was all alone here; like he was lost, or drowning. 

“A suit cornered me two weeks ago outside the theater,” you say. “But I didn’t talk to Stella until yesterday.” 

Steve snorts, shaking his head. 

“That’s why you were outside yesterday. What, you just figured, you’d avoid me until the truth came out itself?” 

Your lips part, excuses piling up against your teeth, but they’re all empty and baseless, and they won’t save you; both of you know what you’ve done. 

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, then?” He asks, cocking a brow. He reminds you of the Steve from that first night, the one who lifted his bat in the kitchen and then lowered it; this is the Steve from before, the one who didn’t trust you. The parallel makes your chest ache. 

“You left everything behind for me. _Everything_. It’s not like you just…moved across the country, or something. You followed me thirty-five years into the future, Steve. And I know you say you’re okay with it, but I took your _life_. I _ruined_ it. I already had that to live with, and then, all of this started happening, and I…” You pause. “I don’t know. I just… I’ve ruined so much for you, and I couldn’t do it again.” 

“So, you lied? Kept it all secret?” He asks. “What the hell kind of solution is that?” 

You shake your head, no words coming to your side, and Steve folds his arms across his chest, turning halfway toward the window, his gaze on the woods behind Robin’s home. When he meets your gaze again, his expression is red and angry. 

“You’re right. I left everything behind. For you. Because I thought we were a team. But this whole time, all of this has been happening behind my back.”

“We are,” you say, pleading, panic building in your chest. “It was stupid, and I know I should have told you, but I was trying to…I don’t know, keep you safe.” 

“Did you not think I could help?” He asks.

“Of course not,” you say. “Are you kidding? You know you’re the first person I’d want by my side.”

“Then, why? Why bullshit me for weeks?”

The word stings when you know how harshly it has been used against him; when you know how much he hates it. You press your lips together, folding your arms around your torso. 

Twelve hours ago, you were just an average couple in the twenty-first century. Of course, it couldn’t last; the good things never seem to stay all that long. 

You let out a breath, and say, “I was scared you’d…I don’t know, blame me for ruining your life again, and…” You lift your gaze, finishing meekly. “Leave me.” 

Steve’s brows furrow and he shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. 

“I wouldn’t …you could have come to me, and I’d…” He stops, closing his eyes and shaking his head again. He’s closed off, walls impenetrable. When he opens them, you can’t read a single thing. He gestures around. “All of this …whatever’s happening now, it’s not your fault. But lying.... _that_ was.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I know. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” 

Steve nods, gaze far away, and moves to the door, jamming his feet into his sneakers. Panic spikes in your chest, and you straighten, catching his attention. He meets your gaze, and guilt flashes quickly in his eyes. 

“No, I’m not-” He stops. “I just…need some air. But I’m coming back.” His expression is sincere, and he gives a little nod. “I’m just going outside. I’ll be back.” 

“Okay,” you say, because you can’t say anything else, as much as you want to. You were wrong, and you have to live with it, and that’s all you can do. 

Steve flashes a tiny smile before he leaves, meant to be reassuring, but it does nothing to lighten the stone weighing heavily on your gut. 

* * *

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then twenty. Then thirty. At thirty-five, you gather your courage and climb out of bed, tugging shoes on and heading down the hall and down the stairs, pushing through the back door into the yard. 

The afternoon sun shines bright and hot in the cloudless sky, illuminating an empty backyard. You walk the edges of it, scanning the trees for Steve, and head around the house, assuming he wandered to the porch. 

When you reach the front yard, only Robin and your car remain in the driveway. Steve is nowhere to be found. 

With Reagan and Kaitlyn at work and your and Robin’s cars still in the drive, he couldn’t have taken a vehicle. Steve is smart enough not to wander too far, recognizing that this Hawkins is different than his. He would know not to go too far, and even if he did, he’d have taken note of the steps he took to get there. He’d be able to find his way back. 

“Steve!” You call. “Steve, where are you?” 

The street stays silent and unaware, and you clear your throat, pushing past the rising fear. 

“Look, I know you’re mad at me, but you’re freaking me out!” Your only response is silence. “Steve! Please!” 

The wind hums, reassuring you that if Steve was anywhere close, it could carry his words to you. 

You find your answer on the driveway, behind your car, in the form of a facedown piece of a square paper. Stomach in your throat, you cross the driveway and kneel down, picking up the paper and flipping it open. 

It is not paper at all, but a polaroid photo. A photo you’ve come to know well after these few weeks; a photo that is more than a photo. 

Words are scrawled below the photo, with arrows pointing to two people: you and Steve. Beneath your name, it reads _the Key_. Beneath Steve’s, it reads _the reason_. 

You let the photo fall, bile clawing its way up your throat, a deafening ringing sounding in your ears.

Gone. Steve is gone. Not just gone, but taken. And this time, it really is your fault. 

* * *

You find Robin in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, humming to herself contentedly. When you bolt inside, she jumps, turning to face you with a smile, a hand slapped to her chest. 

“Jesus, you scared me,” she says. Her gaze trails across your face, taking note of the red-rimmed eyes and the wide gaze and the quivering lip, and her smile slips away, concern replacing it. “What’s going on? What happened?” 

Sobs climb up your chest, threatening to burst out, and you let out a little gasp. 

“It’s Steve,” you say, voice cracking. “He’s gone.”

Robin wilts, eyes widening, and asks, “What do you mean ‘he’s gone?’” Her tone is slow, like she can’t make the words make sense in her own head, only forcing them out in the expected order. 

“The scientists. The lab. It’s not over. None of it’s over.” You take a deep breath, lifting your gaze to her, pushing past the cacophony of chaos skittering under and along your skin, pushing past the fear and the anger and the guilt and the sadness. 

“Steve is gone,” you say. “They took him.” 


	6. part 6

The room is white. When Steve opens his eyes, the stark walls and bright fluorescent lights above him are blinding, so much so that he tries to bring his hands up to shield the light. 

He tries, only to find his arms and ankles tightly bound. The confinement snaps him out of his grogginess, and he tugs against his restraints again, squinting against the light as he attempts to place himself. White room, white walls, white floors, white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic, if he breathes deep enough. 

The chair he’s sitting in is large, with straps and armrests to tie him to, and they’re tightly wound around him. The room is empty save for the chairs, and only one of them is occupied, leaving three empty. 

Tied to another, sitting across the room, is Stella. Her hair is matted, her clothing ruffled, and from the way she hangs her head and slumps, she’s on some kind of sedatives. Steve’s pulse leaps; they got her, too. 

At his movement, her eyes open, and she flicks a lazy glance his direction, her brows twitching. 

“Stella,” Steve says, scanning the room for some clue as to where he is and coming up empty, “what the hell is going on?” 

Stella strains to lift her head, holding his gaze with half-lidded eyes, and her lips turn down as she looks around the room and back at him. 

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” She asks, words slurred; definitely drugged, presumably to keep her from blasting the doors off this place. Unfortunate. “We got _got_.”

Panic unfurls in Steve’s chest, and he stiffens, though he already knows the other chairs to be empty. He lets out a breath and forces images of you bloody and broken out of his head. 

He left. He did exactly what he promised he wouldn’t do. It may not have been his intention to get snatched, but he should have known leaving the house, especially after what you told him, was a stupid plan. He was frustrated and hurt and couldn’t think around either, so he made a dumb choice. And now, here he is, tied up once again. 

“You weren’t s’posed to come back, you know,” Stella says. Her head lolls to one side, and she gives Steve a sad smile. “When I saw the future, you were never in it. Why didn’t I see you?” 

Steve frowns, and says, “I didn’t know I was _coming_. It was a…last-minute thing.” He shrugs, thinking of your question that first day back, of _do you regret it?_

He doesn’t, even now, strapped to this chair. Likely a poor choice, but it’s one he believes in. 

Stella shakes her head and says, “You changed everything.” 

“That good or bad?” He asks. Stella closes her eyes. 

“Look around,” she whispers. “Why do you think these chairs are empty?” She opens her eyes, and her gaze is intense, piercing. “Why do you think you’re here?”

Steve’s frown deepens. Why is he here? He has no abilities, not like Stella, not like you. 

Three more chairs: three more bodies. Terry, Sara, and you. He and Stella are not - will not be - the only ones taken. 

His stomach drops like a stone and fear knots inside his chest, twisting tight and pushing on his lungs. The bindings only add to his panic, stoking the flames growing inside him. He kicks himself for leaving, for being angry at you, for walking away. He was stupid and immature. 

He isn’t even that mad at you anymore. Not now, where he’s sitting. He can see why you tried to bring the curtains down, even if he disagrees with you for doing it. 

Now, he’s just sorry. Sorry for not paying closer attention and for being an idiot, for all of it. Unfortunately, he knows a reunion is coming soon, whether he wants it to or not. 

The pit in his gut grows, coiling like a snake and gnawing on him. He looks at Stella again.

“Why am I here?” He asks. “What the hell do they want with me?” 

A sad smile tugs on Stella’s lips, and she shakes her head, asking, “Don’t you know? You’re the reason.” 

“The reason?” He asks, inclining his head. Stella nods. 

“It’s why you weren’t supposed to be here,” she says. “It’s because you’re the only thing that will break them.”

“Them?” He asks, a deafening ringing buzzing in his head. Stella’s expression turns stony. 

“You’re the only thing that will break Y/N.” 

* * *

Robin and Reagan spend the entire day on the phone, and once it’s discovered that Stella never came home last night and that Terry and Sara haven’t been heard from since early this morning, the panic that’s been building inside you infects everyone. By three, everyone is at Robin and Reagan’s house, with Reagan and Lucas heading to the police station to check up on leads. 

The chaos and fear are tangible in the house, and you can do nothing of assistance, drifting amongst them like a ghost and regurgitating the events of the past few days to anyone who asks. 

When the sun starts to set, and the panic turns to despair, you escape to your bedroom upstairs - your and Steve’s room. It looks just like it did when he was here, when you lost him. He was here, and now, he’s not. 

His clothes are still piled on the chair, freshly folded, and his hoodie is strewn across the bed, and his sneakers are near the door, and if you close your eyes and inhale, it’s almost like he’s still here. 

But he isn’t still here. He’s gone; he’s gone because you kept the secret too long, because he didn’t know he needed to be watching out. Maybe if he had, he’d still be here. 

You drop onto the bed, curling on your side, and tug your phone out of your pocket, clicking the Photos app. Half your camera roll is shots of you and Steve, and the other of him messing around with filters - at least twenty Alien Head filters, of course. 

You flip through the photos - Steve peeking his head out from under a mountain of blankets, and him pressing a kiss to your cheek while you laugh, and him making a dorky face behind Kaitlyn in the living room - and fall into the few weeks of peace you had before the world fell out from beneath you. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until Robin comes in with a box of tissues and sits down beside you, joining the pity party as you scroll through pictures and videos. 

“We’re going to find him,” she says eventually, an arm wrapped around you. “We’ll find them all.” 

You want to believe her, but it’s been a long time since Robin was face to face with monsters: time blurs and softens edges. Your fights are too recent to lighten, and you can’t afford to underestimate what you know is out there, lurking. 

It won’t be that simple, because it never is. Because winning is never the default, or even one of the options. 

* * *

The window doesn’t whine as it opens, and the carpets don’t creak as the intruders cross them, the house silent and unwarning when you wake to dark silhouettes leaning over your bed. 

Before you can scream, before you even have time to feel fear, pain pricks in your neck, and cool darkness washes over you, dragging you right back beneath the surface. 

* * *

The room is white, and the lights are blinding. Your neck is sore from where the needle went in, and you feel as if you were tossed into a washing machine and locked inside for the cycle, your body fulls of aches; whoever brought you here wasn’t gentle. 

“Y/N,” a familiar voice says, the sound a prick of relief against your growing panic. “You’re okay. Thank _fuck_ you’re okay.” 

You open your eyes to find yourself in a white room filled with five chairs full of teenagers. In the chair beside you, Steve is strapped down and straining to lean forward and crane his head your way. On his other side, Sara is unconscious, her head tipped forward. 

Against the left wall, half facing you, Sara, and Steve, is Terry, blinking awake and getting angrier by the moment. On the far wall is Stella, out of it but awake. 

You find Steve’s eyes again, guilt and relief warring inside you. 

“I’m so sorry. Steve, I’m so, so sorry-”

“Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He nods earnestly, brows knit together. He struggles against the binds on the hand nearest you, trying to stretch it toward you, wiggling his fingers. You try to meet him, stretching your arm against the straps, skin rubbing rough against the leather. Your fingertips brush his for the fastest of seconds, but the reassurance that he’s there, physically and truly there, pull some of the fear out of you. 

“It’s not. I should have told you from the beginning. I was scared, and I fucked up.” 

He frowns, but after a moment, a tiny smile pulls on his lips, and he shrugs. 

“I mean, it is what it is, now, right?” He says. he nods again, expression gentle. “Seriously. It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “I’m just so glad you’re okay. When they grabbed me, I had no idea…” He shakes his head again and flicks a glance at Stella. “Stella. Stella, you gotta stay away.” 

Stella lifts her head, clearly fighting against the drugs, and nods. 

“I’m tryin’. I can’t…reach anybody.” 

“Let me try,” Terry says, voice low. She looks to her sister and her brows furrow. “Sara, can I-”

“Do it,” Sara says curtly. She closes her eyes, scrunching up her nose, as if in preparation, and Terry closes her eyes, too. Seconds later, red trails down both their noses, and a vein pops out in Terry’s forehead. Just as soon as she’s started, she stops, cursing. 

“Damn it,” Terry says. “I can’t. I can’t get out of this room.” 

“S’the drugs,” Stella says. “That’s the point.”

“Well, we can’t just sit here and wait,” Sara snaps. 

“You got a better plan?” Stella asks. 

“Y/N, think you can summon us up a gate and get us out of here?” Sara asks, half kidding. 

“No,” you and Stella say at the same time, the force of your words making Steve flinch. He catches your gaze and says in a low voice, “It’s true, then?”

“It’s true,” you say. 

“Yep,” Stella says. “Who better to start the apocalypse than some twenty-year-old assholes?” 

“Wanna shut it over there, Miss Morphine?” Terry asks, making Stella snort. 

“All of you shut up,” Steve snaps. You give him a grateful smile, sitting back against the chair, bolting upright a beat later. 

“Wait,” you say. “Steve. Why the hell is Steve here?” 

The door across the room buzzes and opens to allow three men in uniforms to enter. Behind them, two scientists in white coats follow. 

“Looks like we’ve got a full house,” says the man in front, no older than his mid-thirties, cocky and confident as he scans the five of you. 

“If you don’t mind, could we skip the villainous monologue, thing?” Steve asks, voice cold. “This isn’t exactly our first rodeo.” 

You snort, though Terry, Sara, and Stella don’t seem to find it funny; they look terrified. You’re terrified, too, but you’ve gone against worse than a few men in suits. It takes more than this to really unsettle you; not a point in your life you thought you’d ever reach, but life has proven to be quite unpredictable as of late. 

“Yeah, if you could just get on with it, that’d be great,” you say. 

“Are we going the torture route? Or, drugs?” Steve asks. 

“Oh, I bet they’re more creative than that. They’ve had thirty-five years to figure it out.” 

Steve grins, and the man in charge frowns, his eyes ablaze with rage. He shakes it off, composing himself, and his lips pull up into an empty, unsettling smile. 

“Playing brave, are we?” He asks. 

“Just not afraid of babies playing dress up,” you say. 

“Yeah, where’d you get that suit, man?” Steve asks. “Like, even I know four buttons is tacky.” 

The only indication of the man’s anger is in the clenching of his jaw, but he doesn’t let that sick smile falter. The sight of it makes anxiety skitter along your skin, makes you want to jump out of your skin. 

“Things will be different this time around,” the man says. “The next generation will be stronger. Better. This Darkness will change the world.”

“Did you just call it the Darkness?” You ask. 

Steve snorts a laugh and says, “I mean, points for effort.”

The man snaps a finger, and the two people in coats step forward, pulling syringes out of their necks. They separate, one to you and one to Steve, and you both squirm and stiffen, protests building and falling out of your lips onto uncaring ears. 

“Like I said,” the man says, “this time will be different. You will not run amok. You will complete your tasks, each of you.” 

“Fat fucking chance,” Steve snarls, angling away from the needle. He spits out expletives as the doctor plunges it into his neck, but he relaxes quickly against the drugs. 

Just as with Steve, the drugs shot into your system quickly ebb your panic, an unnatural calm washing over you and making your limbs heavy. 

“When we open the door,” the man says, “we will finish what my father started.” 

“Fuck you,” you say, or, at least, try to. Your words are slurred and slow, the sedatives settling atop you like a heavy blanket. You can’t catch onto your thoughts long enough to string together, and from the looks of the others, they’re in the same boat. 

Neither Stella nor Terry nor Sara can save you here. No one can. The people looking for you have no idea where to start, and your most powerful fighters are drugged and bound. 

When you came back to the future, you were supposed to have time. You were supposed to have a fresh start and a happy ending. 

There will be an ending this time around, but you’re starting to doubt that it will be happy. Maybe, it was never going to be. 


	7. part 7

Robin and Reagan’s living room becomes an armory, with long-retired soldiers shrugging off the domestic coats they’ve adorned for the last thirty-five years and settling back into the role they played as children. Only this time, it isn’t their lives at stake, but their children’s; the next generation is up on the slab. 

Even the remaining kids - those untaken by the suits and scientists - are given guns and bats; they all grew up preparing for this day, even if they doubted it would ever come to pass. 

It might be considered sweet or sentimental if one took a step back to look. Two generations gearing up for battle, parents adjusting their kid’s holsters and preparing to walk side by side. 

Lucas and Reagan manage to figure out where the lab is - or, at the very least, they make quite the educated guess - based on energy consumption in Hawkins; cheers to modern technology. 

They know where to go, and they remember what to do, but half the army is long out of practice, and the other half thought their training was all just a big game. 

None of them know what they’re up against, but they have no choice to move forward; that has always been the only choice. 

* * *

The suits drag you, Sara, Terry, and Steve into a grimy basement with stained tile floors and cracking walls. The lights flicker above, and a viewpoint that looks over clearly shows the room through a thick pane of glass. 

Sara, Terry, and Steve are chained to three of the walls. You are led to the far one, plopped in front of it, uncuffed, but a metal collar is attached around your throat. All of you are clasped with collars, but only you remain off the wall. 

The soldiers who deposited you quickly retreat, tugging the door shut behind them and the lock buzzes as they depart. In the room above, heads are visible peering through the glass, watching the four of you like you’re animals in the circus, and they’re waiting to see you dance. 

“What the hell is this?” You call. “What did you do with Stella?” 

The door buzzes open, and the man from before enters, wearing another ridiculous suit and dripping false confidence. He holds a small remote in one hand, and despite being locked in a room with two telepaths who can kill him, he seems unbothered. Calm, even. 

“The Byers’ girl is fine. She isn’t needed for this part.” He crosses the room to you, stopping a yard away and lifting the remote. “Now. This should be simple. Open the gate.” 

You curl your lip. “ _No_.” When you lunge for him, no plan other than to punch him square in the nose, he presses a button on the remote and electricity jolts through you, dropping you to the floor like a stone. You gasp for breath, pushing up on your hands and knees and trying to think past the current of pain slowly ebbing away. 

“As I was saying,” the man says. He shifts, turning in a slow circle to look at Steve, Terry, and Sara. “You all have parts to play. And if you don’t play them, a little zap will be the least of your problems.” 

“Is this your whole villain monologue thing?” Steve drones, pulling the man’s attention. “Because, it could seriously use some work.” 

The man smirks and presses another button. Steve stiffens, dropping to his knees, a tiny cry slipping through clenched teeth. 

“ _Stop_ ,” you snarl. The man turns to you, that same smirk playing on his lips. 

“Step out of line, and I won’t need to use this. Do as you’re told,” he says. 

“Someone’s got serious issues,” Steve says, spitting onto the floor, pushing himself back to his feet, his chains rattling. The man ignores him. 

“Theresa. You’re up first.”

“Not doing shit for you,” Terry snaps. The man chuckles and presses another button. Sara screams, the sound piercing your ears, and stumbles, her eyes falling shut as the collar shocks her. He increases the voltage, and Sara’s screams rip the ceiling - and your chest - open. 

“Okay! Okay!” Terry cries. “Please, please, just don’t hurt her.” 

The man smiles and shifts, pointing a finger at Steve. Steve, who has just shaken off the first shock, pales at the attention, and more of your heart rips to pieces. 

You’re utterly helpless in this cycle of pain; there isn’t an inch of wiggle room, and even if you could find it, you’d be unconscious, or the others would be dead, before you made it. 

The man walks up to Terry, sick smile on his lips, and leans in. You’re close enough to make out his words, but the understanding doesn’t dawn on you until Terry’s gaze snaps to Steve. 

“You’ll show him what I want you to show him,” he whispers. He steps back, and Terry looks at Steve, and before you have time to react, Steve crumbles to his knees again. 

This isn’t electricity, isn’t physical pain. This is a story that the man is weaving, and Terry is sowing into Steve’s head. 

At first, it doesn’t seem to be that bad of a story. Then Steve begins to scream. 

When the word NO falls from his lips, it’s so weighed down with sadness his voice comes out rough and raw, like every ounce of pain he’s ever felt is being shoved into the syllable. 

Whatever he sees, whatever show is rolling in his head, is the worst thing he could imagine. 

You understand the game now. The players and their parts. Sara as collateral for Terry, and Steve as collateral for you, and all of you as collateral for each other. Your bonds might make you strong most of the time, but in this room, it’s those very bonds ripping you to pieces. 

It’s a mind game, every piece of it. The man keeps his hands clean and tugs on the strings; you’re the puppets to his puppeteer. 

“No, no, no,” Steve moans, on his knees, gripping his hair tightly and tugging on it as he rocks back and forth. “No. Please, please-” 

“Stop! Please, please stop-” You take a step forward - a step away from your wall - and your body lights up with pain, the electricity frazzling your thoughts and plucking the strength from your legs. You step back, leaning into the wall, legs jelly beneath you. All you can do is watch as Steve rips on his own hair. 

It’s when the words change - when the begging and pleading become concrete - that you can’t take it anymore; it’s when he screams your name. 

Panic and rage and sadness and helplessness war inside you, and the collar around your neck has you as shackled as the others. 

You don’t need to see what he does to know what it is; not when your name falls from his lips in a way you’ve never heard before, in a way that slices to your very core and yanks. 

He thinks you’re dying. You feel like you’re dying, watching him watch you - the fake you, the one Terry forces into his head with tears streaming down her cheeks. 

You’ve never seen or felt so much pain in your life. You’re choking on it, drowning in it. To watch the one you love suffer, to be so helpless, is worse than the agony you felt when the Demogorgon ripped you open all that time ago. Worse than when you first stepped back into your time and believed you were alone. Worse than any of it, worse than all of it. 

And you break. You break, just as the man knew you would. When you scream for him to stop, this time, he does. 

He shakes his head at Terry, who falls to her knees and curls in on herself, her body shaking as she sobs. Steve, across the room, slumps back, scooting back against the wall and drawing his knees to his chest, his expression wide and unfocused, tears still streaming down his cheeks. Wherever he went, wherever Terry took him, he’s still dragging himself back. 

The man turns to you with a satisfied smile. 

“I’ll do it,” you say, throat raw from screaming. “I’ll open it.” 

The man’s smile widens but falters when you continue speaking. “But I do it on my terms. Do you understand me?” 

* * *

Terry and Sara are deposited in separate cells, but the man allows you to follow Steve into his, though he gestures to the remote in his hand in a silent warning. The man says, “Two minutes,” before slamming the door shut on you. 

You turn to Steve, who has regained some of his color but still trembles. 

“Steve,” you say softly. His gaze snaps to yours, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. His lips part and his shoulders sag, and you lunge to wrap your arms around him and hold him up as he falls into your arms. He wraps his arms around you tightly, burying his face in your hair, his breath ragged and tinged with panic. 

“They killed you,” he whispers. “I _watched_ them. I watched you-”

“Shh,” you say, hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair. “It wasn’t real. I’m here. I’m okay.” 

He pulls back, shaking his head, his expression contorted. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for leaving, and for what I said, and for-”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Your hands move to cup his cheeks, and you draw him close, dipping your forehead against his. “It’s my fault. I should have told you from the beginning.” 

He pulls away, brows furrowing. 

“No. If it were me, I probably would have done the same thing, and you’d have been just as pissed at me.” His lips turn down in a frown. “I need you to know something.” His tone takes on an edge that turns your stomach. 

“No. Steve, we’re not saying our goodbyes-”

He presses his lips together and says, “I think we might be.” 

A sob claws its way up your throat, and you shake your head, tears welling in your eyes. 

“No,” you say. 

“You know we don’t get out of this,” he says. “You know what happens the second you open that gate.” 

“Steve, _no_.” It’s Steve’s turn for comforting, and he cups your cheek, his lips pulling into the saddest smile you’ve ever seen. 

“I need you to know that you didn’t ruin my life,” he says. “You are my life. Until I met you, I felt…out of place, you know? Like I was just pretending. And then I met you, and I followed you here, and for the first time, I felt like I belonged.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “So, you didn’t ruin my life. You _gave_ me one.” 

“I might have taken it away, too,” you say, one side of your mouth lifting. “You’re only here because of me.” 

“Who knew falling in love with you would be what killed me,” he says, and he’s smiling, too, even though you’ve both started to cry. You laugh, but it’s part sob, too. Steve pulls you close, and you bury your face in his chest, and you hope desperately that this isn’t the end, that this isn’t where the story stops. 

This can’t be where Steve Harrington’s story ends. You won’t let it be. 

Resignation settles inside you, the embers of a plan beginning to spark. You don’t have power like Stella, or Terry, or Sara, but you have one skill. There has to be a way to use it. 

The door opens, and the man returns, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you away roughly. Steve calls your name, and you manage to catch his gaze once over your shoulder before you’re pulled around the corner. 

You push the thought in his direction and pray it reaches him. 

_I’m coming back to you_. 

* * *

The chances of success for what is undoubtedly a suicidal plan are likely meager, but luckily, there is no one but you to call it out, and you’re not interested in logistics or chances. You’re interested in saving your family. 

You can open a gate to the Upside Down, but you can also close it. Not just close it; you can destroy it. 

If these suits and scientists want a gate, you’ll give them one. But it won’t take them where they want to go. 

Some people’s stories will end here, but it’s not going to be yours, or Steve’s, or Stella’s, or Terry’s, or Sara’s. 

The Upside Down has been writing fate for almost forty years. Perhaps it’s time to hand someone else the reins; perhaps it’s time to take them yourself. 

The man drags you back to the room you were previously in, and though Terry and Sara are nowhere to be found, Stella is heavily chained against one wall. A bundle of scientists and officials and suits stand in the middle of the room, facing the far wall. 

They’ve chosen a canvas, and they’ve brought you, the artist, in to work. 

The man pushes you into the wall, but you manage to catch yourself before colliding, turning to shoot a glare at him. He ignores it and looks at Stella. 

“When it opens, you will send us back to 1983.”

Your brows twitch, and nausea coils in your gut. 

“1983? Why are you going back there?”

The man turns to you, a smile pulling on his lips, and says, “To end things before they begin.” 

“What?” You breathe. 

“You can’t do that!” Stella cries. 

“I can,” the man says, “and I am.” He snaps at you and gestures to the wall. “Now. Open it up. Or the boy dies, and the girls follow.” 

Rage burns in your chest, animal and feral, but you push it aside, tucking it away just for the moment. 

You face the wall and place a hand on it, flicking a glance at Stella over your shoulder. You give a small shake of your head, and she frowns, but after a moment, her gaze darts to the man and back, and when you nod, understanding dawns in her eyes. 

If she understands, and you hope she does, she won’t be sending them back. Where she sends them, though, is up to her. 

You look at the wall and close your eyes, thinking of a door cracking open and a window breaking and a wave parting in two. The stone softens beneath your fingers, and when you open your eyes, the grey is black, and it climbs, spreading in all directions. 

_Enough_ , you think, and pull your hand away. To your shock, the gate listens, shimmering as if to say it understands. 

Behind you, blood trails down Stella’s noise. The scientists and suits chatter. You turn around, heart hammering in your chest, thinking of Steve and the girls and everything you’ve loved or lost or left behind, and you gather up every ounce of strength you have. 

“Here’s your gate,” you snap, stepping back and gesturing to it. “Assholes first.” 


	8. part 8

Some say the world will end in fire, and some in ice; that’s the story the way the poet tells it. But the world never really ends. Part of it does - people die and stories end and words are erased - but the world isn’t easily defeated, if ever. 

After all, when we talk about the world ending, we don’t mean the world with capital letters: we mean our world, our personal world, our  _ life _ . And if you’re talking about lives, then sure, thousands end every day; in fire and in ice and in a million other mediums; then, the world has ended millions of times.

The world, big picture, always keeps chugging forward. Whether we’re here to see it or not. 

Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we have a choice, or a chance, to stay and watch it all happen. Sometimes, we don’t get to decide anything at all. 

* * *

“Well done,” the man says, nodding to you curtly and gesturing to the scientists and suits behind him. He turns to Stella. “Now. If that door lets us out anywhere other than 1983, you and your friends are dead before your nose gets a chance to bleed. Understood?”

Stella nods, tears welling behind her angry expression, and she closes her eyes, blood trickling out her nostrils and down her lips. She shudders with the effort, and when she opens her eyes, she’s popped a blood vessel in one of them, clouding it red. 

The suits and scientists move slowly, hesitantly, but the man reassures them of their safety, and one by one, they step through the membrane and into whatever landscape Stella put them in; you pray it’s anywhere  _ but _ 1983\. 

The plan you’ve been holding close relies on the man’s exit, but to your dismay, he doesn’t follow his companions through the gate. Instead, he turns to face you, holding the remote for your collars in his hand as a looming threat, and cracks a smirk. 

“You didn’t think I was that stupid, did you?” He asks. “Walk right through that door for you to close it behind me?”

You swallow the rage bubbling up in your chest and clench your teeth, averting your gaze. The gate shimmers and shakes on the wall, the color of tar and smelling of decay; you can do nothing against the man in front of you if he’s not inside that gate. 

You’re not powerful. You can open a door and close it, but you can’t bring a man to his knees or show him his worst nightmares; you can’t create monsters or bend time or wield gravity like a weapon. You are simply you. 

Unfortunately, you are all anyone has. You’re all Steve and Stella and Terry and Sara have. Powers or not, you’re the last line of defense, and if you can’t hold this line, the entire war ends here with victory in the hands of your enemies. 

The line cannot fall; you can’t let it. 

“This is for my boyfriend, you piece of shit,” you snap. You don’t allow yourself the time to consider the decision - if you did, you’d see how stupid it is, and certainly rethink it - before lunging for the man, slamming your weight into him, the only goal to knock him off balance. 

The remote clatters out of his hands and the breath vanishes from his lungs, and he closes his eyes, lips forming an O. 

“Stella!” You yell, scrambling off the man and onto your feet. Behind you, Stella lets out a blood-curdling scream that shakes the very walls of the room. 

On the floor, the man bucks, a silent cry on his lips, blood trickling out of his nose and ears. It ends quickly, with a slump and a sigh. 

He lays on the ground, legs bent at an odd angle, and though the sight of him makes nausea coil inside you, you have to lift his limp arm to reach the fallen remote. You press the button to release your and Stella’s collars and throw it aside, turning to face where she stands against the wall, free of her shackles and collar, breathing heavily, half her face stained in blood. 

“Stella,” you say. Her gaze doesn’t move from the man on the ground. “Stella.”

“He’s…”

You cross the room, stepping over the man and ignoring the turn in your gut, stopping in front of her. 

“Stella,” you say, drawing her attention to you. Her eyes find yours, though her expression is frazzled. “You need to go get Steve and the girls. Get them out of here.”

“What about you?” She breathes. You purse your lips, flicking a glance back at the gate still shimmering on the wall. 

“I need to close that door,” you say. “The men inside, where-”

One side of Stella’s mouth quirks up, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“I sent them nowhere,” she says. “They were dead the second they stepped through.” 

Your stomach twists, and you nod, touching Stella’s arm gently. “Good girl.” 

Her brows furrow, and she opens her mouth to say something else, but you interrupt, “Stella. It’s your turn to listen to me.” Her gaze focuses, and you continue, feeding her own words back to her. “You’re the only chance  _ I _ have. And I need you to get them out. You’re the only one who can.”

“But-but you-” She shakes her head.

“Stella.” Your tone silences her, and she nods. “Please.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.” 

She turns, taking off toward the door and flinging it open without a finger, bolting into the hallway. 

* * *

Steve spends half an hour trying to pull a nail out of the bed frame in his cell before giving up and slumping back against the wall with bloody, aching fingers. He feels like a butterfly pinned to a board, but he can’t see what happens below him, only knows its happening. 

He knows that you’re in this building, presumably in pain, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. 

When the door flies open, he’s on his feet instantly and ready to bash the skull in of whoever is unlucky enough to come inside, but his rage quiets at the sight of Stella, Sara, and Terry pushing through the doorway. Sara and Terry are still wearing their collars, but Stella’s is gone. All three have blood streaming down their faces, though Stella’s is half dried. 

You are nowhere to be found. 

“Let’s go, Harrington,” Sara says, waving a hand. Steve crosses to the door and follows them out into the hall, expecting to find you there, too, but the hall is empty. 

“Where is Y/N?” He asks, whipping his head around. 

Terry and Sara exchange a look, and Stella clears her throat. 

“Right behind us,” she says. “Now, we need to go.” 

The lights above flicker erratically and the floor shakes, like it is stretching or yawning, and goes still. 

Steve stiffens and snaps his gaze to Stella. 

“Where,” he says, “Is Y/N?” 

Stella’s lips part and she says, “I’m sorry. But they told me to get you out.”

“What?” He asks, stomach dropping. “What does that mean? Where-” As if a flip has been switched, Steve loses the ability to speak. His lips aren’t his own, nor are his feet, or his hands. 

He is a puppet, and right now, Stella has his strings. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

He tries to scream, tries to thrash out of the invisible grip on his limbs, tries to beg and plead for them to give him control back, but he can’t move a muscle. 

He thinks of you, a collar around your neck. He thinks of the images he saw, of you dying, of you bleeding out in his arms. He thinks of you falling to the Demogorgon, back in 1985. He thinks of you, smiling, and sleeping in bed, and looking at him with that expression reserved for him, and of the way he felt when he thought he lost you. A love story that spans decades and generations, out of time. 

Steve is not ready for the story to end. Not without fighting to change it. 

So, he breaks free. Stella’s control over him lapses - to her shock, indicated by her expression - and Steve pushes forward. He makes it three steps in the opposite direction, though it feels like slogging through molasses, before the others react. 

“How the fuck-” Sara says, before Stella calls Terry’s name, and Steve loses his control again. The vines looping around his limbs and nerves are not just Stella’s, this time, but Terry’s, too. He’s both of their puppet, now.

“I told them I’d get you out,” Stella pleads, moving into Steve’s view. He spews obscenities in his head, chucking them back at her. Stella winces, catching the train of thought and pushing it away. 

“I can’t leave them,” He says, spitting through the lock on his teeth - Terry’s, that she’s loosened enough to let him speak or loosened enough himself through sheer will. “I won’t. I  _ can’t _ .”

Terry winces, but jerks a chin, and Steve is pulled forward. Stella and Sara continue walking, both Stella and Terry pulling Steve’s strings. He can’t speak anymore; he can’t do anything but watch through the glass as his body carries him through the warehouse and away from you. 

He isn’t in control, but he’s never felt more like a traitor in his life than he does right now. He tries to break through the girl’s control again, but their adrenaline and desperation to get out have them at full awareness, and he can’t even manage to poke at the stone wall they’ve thrown up between him and the gears. 

* * *

Eleven stands with her eyes closed just beyond the first door of the warehouse. The others stand behind her, their weapons raised, all scanning the halls, all preparing to fire and cover. 

El’s eyes snap open, and she says, “They’re coming,” just as a door down the hall flies open, and Stella, Terry, and Sara sprint through, followed by Steve, who has a pained expression on his face. 

Terry and Sara hesitate, calling, “Mom?” But Stella doesn’t slow. She meets her own fathers’ gazes amidst the chaos, and she throws the word RUN into Will and Alex’s heads, and then they’re all running, turning and pushing back through the door and out into the dusk. 

* * *

The man’s body lays unmoving near your feet, and on the wall, the gate shimmers, as if beckoning you back to it. If you close your eyes, you can feel it, like a soft humming, a current of electricity running through you. Like power lines, like a brain; living and breathing. 

The Upside Down has been alive for too long, has caused far too much carnage and chaos. It has spanned generations and ended bloodlines and slashed through ties, and it has taken, taken, always taken. 

You and the others killed it once, back in 1985, but it was reborn in the next generation with the Party’s kids. Because you were still gone, still lost in time or in the Upside Down, the break was never able to fully heal; killing the heart back then was slapping a bandaid on a shattered bone and calling it good. 

Stella says that you’re the only one who can end this. You don’t know why, or how, and you doubt you ever will, but you’re not looking for answers. You’re just looking for an ending, a fix. You don’t need more than that. 

You step up to the gate and place your palm atop the mucus-like substance, the humming growing in your ears. Cold and calm flush through you, and you can feel the Upside Down’s heartbeat, or its version of one; it’s a current, a twisted version of a pulse. It is weak, beating slowly, the way it has been for thirty-five years, since you killed most of it. 

As it turns out, the only person who can close the door all the way is you. And you intend to slam it so hard the entire doorframe breaks. 

* * *

The girls and Steve slow to a stop a few yards from the main entrance to the old warehouse, the others slowing around them. Alex and Will have Stella wrapped in their arms in seconds, and Eleven and Mike throw their own arms around their girls, and for a moment, just a moment, the others think they’ve won. 

Then Kaitlyn says, “Where’s Y/N?” 

The chaos of the last few moments has shaken Stella and Terry’s concentration, and the moment Steve feels his legs again, he’s bolting for the door. 

He doesn’t make it, not because of any telepathic reason, but because Jason Sinclair - the star of Hawkins High’s football team - tackles him to the ground. Jason acts with only a glance from Stella - one look of fear, and years of knowing each other has each child understanding. They gather around him, Jason standing up, and Stella and Terry slide back into place, ready to take control. 

“Steve,” Robin calls. Steve hesitates, lifting his gaze to hers. “Don’t be a dingus, here.” Her voice is gentle, kind, with a hint of warning, and a hell of a lot of sentimentalities. Her words mean:  _ don’t do something stupid, because I can’t lose you both, because I can’t lose you again. _

“Robin,” he says, voice cracking. “I can’t  _ lose _ them.” 

“And we can’t lose  _ you _ ,” Robin says. 

“Don’t make El mind-cuff you,” Mike says. 

“I’m more practiced than the girls,” El says. “I won’t let you go.” 

* * *

The humming in your ears is overpowering, but you don’t need to be able to hear, or see, or do anything but think, but  _ feel _ . When you close your eyes, you don’t see darkness, but something else. 

You think of raging fires and devastating storms and gunshots and explosions and death in every way, shape, or form, and you push it into the gate, mixing the images together like you’re mashing up play-doh colors. 

Hundreds - maybe thousands - of shadows, pressing out of the dark - inside the gate, or the Upside Down - and whispering come into view. At the front of the line, pale faces come into view. 

Barbara Holland. Bob Newby. Behind them, the Holloway’s, and Benny Hammond, and Alexei. Doris Driscoll, Billy Hargrove, and every other flayed soul. They are ghosts hanging like sheets on a line, hovering and unsteady. 

Barbara Holland steps forward, her shape solidifying. 

Her lips curl up in a tiny smile, and she asks, “You’re the one, then?”

“Who?” You ask. 

“The key,” she says. 

“I don’t know what I am.”

Barbara smiles and says, “That’s okay. You don’t need to.”

“But I-”

She shakes her head and gestures to the others around her. They all smile, too, and one by one, the souls begin to slip away. Pain builds in your chest, and the ringing in your ears is sharp and piercing, and you think the floor might be cracking open beneath you, but you can’t see anything but Barb. 

“I’m here to tell you thank you,” she says. “For ending it for us. For avenging us. And,” She cocks a brow, “To  _ run _ before this place comes down on top of you.” 

Then Barb is gone, too, and you snap your eyes open to find a splintering, shaking world. Cracks crawl up the walls like vines, and the floor heaves beneath you. 

Beneath your fingers, the gate is weaving itself shut. Not like a stitch, like something that will scar, but like an eraser; like every trace of the wound is being picked out. 

Barb’s voice rings in your head - run - and you pull your hand away just as the hole vanishes and the cracks climbing the walls crumble the spot it just occupied to dust. 

The hum disappears—the current stops. And a part of you, one you didn’t even know you had, slips away. You can feel it, the holes in your mind, the place the Upside Down somehow resided. 

Maybe the Upside Down did more to Hawkins and its residents than anyone realized; maybe you’re proof of that. Like an oil spill, but instead of tar, it’s telepathic abilities. 

There is no time to think about it, not with the building crashing down over your head. Apparently, an already weak infrastructure was no match for a dying parallel universe, and the foundation is giving by the second. 

In minutes, you’ll be buried beneath the rubble. 

_ Please, Stella _ , you think.  _ Please have gotten them out safe. _

You run; there is nothing left to do but run. 

* * *

Like the solitary site of an earthquake, Steve watches as the warehouse shudders and begins to crumble. With every falling stone and dipping roof, part of him falls with it, breaks with it. 

He keeps his eyes pinned on the front door, but as the seconds drag into minutes, he begins to lose hope; he barely had it to begin with. 

At some point, Will and Alex Byers come up behind him and take him by the arm - a precaution, to keep him from running inside after you - but Steve wouldn’t - couldn’t - move even if he was free. 

You’re dying, and he’s not. This is your time, not his, but for some reason, he’s the only one standing on the other side. 

When the warehouse does finally collapse to dust, letting up a plume so great Steve can’t see through it, he sinks to his knees, and feels the strings fray and break inside him. 

Steve Harrington has seen loss and felt pain, and he’s sacrificed and walked away from things, but none of it is like this; none of it feels like this. Like his very atoms are being shredded, like someone has their fists around his lungs and is twisting, like he’s being ripped apart. 

The worst part of knowing that you’re dead is still being alive to know it. 

“I can’t feel it,” Stella says in an odd, confused voice. “The…the Upside Down. I can’t feel it anymore.”

After a beat, Terry speaks. “Neither….can I.” 

“Me neither,” Sara says. 

It is silent for a long time before Robin says, “They did it. They really did it.” Her voice cracks as she speaks, and no one speaks after. 

Steve is in free-fall. A scream builds in his already-raw throat, but it gets stuck in his mouth, suffocating him. 

A shadow moves in the settling dust, a silhouette that clears as it approaches. They walk slowly and with a limp, one shoulder hanging low, and Steve can hear them coughing across the debris. 

But he knows that sounds. He knows that silhouette. 

He’s sore and aching and raw, but he cares for none of it and runs, sneakers smacking hard against the gravel, and he doesn’t stop to look at your ash-covered, bloody face before he’s throwing his arms around you. 

You let out a sob against his chest, and when your knees give out beneath you, Steve lowers you to the ground, pulling you into his lap atop the dust and ashes of the Upside Down’s final stand. 

For a long time, lost after the dust settles, he holds you, and you hold him, both reassuring the other that you’re alive, that you’re here, that you have the other. 

And when the dust clears, Steve helps you to your feet and walks you away. 

* * *

*ONE MONTH LATER*

The apartment is small and will be crowded with you, Steve, Barbara, Kaitlyn, and Sara living in it, but it gets all of you out of your parents - or, in your and Steve’s case, best friend turned guardian’s - homes. It gives you a little bit of freedom. 

After all you’ve been through, even a little bit of freedom is a beautiful thing. 

In you and Steve’s bedroom, Steve is folding pieces of tape and putting photographs up on the wall - sans frames because, “ _ Y/N, I’m not paying $10 for a frame when I have a roll of tape _ .” 

The photos are a mix of two times, of two lifetimes. You’ve managed to scrounge up some old photos of Steve and you and the party, and there are plenty of new photos to hang, too. It’s a collection of your lives, your own scrapbook page. 

You come up behind Steve, slipping your arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to the top of his back. He shifts, craning his head to give you a smile, and twisting in your arms. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” you say. He smiles, brows twitching. 

“What? I got something on my face?”

You shake your head, hands climbing up his arms to your arms around his neck, canting your hips toward his, inclining your head. 

“Just…glad you’re still here.”

“Says the one who almost died,” he says. You roll your eyes, and Steve grins. 

“Sara talk to Terry?” He asks. You nod. “And they’re still…you know…”

“Upside Down free?” 

“Yeah.”

“They are.” You frown. “I can’t feel it, either. I mean, I didn’t even know I did before, but now that it’s gone…I know it’s gone.” 

“So, it’s really over this time?” Steve asks. 

“Fingers crossed,” you say, and Steve snorts a laugh. 

“Even if it isn’t,” he says, ducking his chin and dipping his forehead against yours, “At least I got this.” 

“You act like you’re the only one getting something out of this.” 

He makes a face and says, “I’m kind of the reason you almost died in the first place.”

“Oh, and how do you figure that?”

He frowns and pulls back, a wall sliding down over his eyes. Your hands move to cup his cheeks, forcing the walls up and back open, pulling his attention to you. 

“I was never supposed to be here,” he says. “If I hadn’t followed you-”

“If you hadn’t followed me through the gate, I wouldn’t have had a reason to climb out of the rubble at the warehouse,” you say. “Next question.”

He groans, and says, “Y/N-”

“No,” you say. “I’m done feeling bad about…fucking with time, or whatever. I don’t care if you’re not supposed to be here. All I care about is that you  _ are _ here.” 

He licks his lips, but nods, eyes fluttering shut. He leans into one of your hands, and a sad smile tugs on his lips as his gaze flicks up to yours. 

“No more looking back,” you say. 

“No more looking back,” Steve agrees. 

Then he tilts his chin up, pressing his lips to yours, and you close the book on the Upside Down. 

It’s been running for decades, but every story must come to an end. Even this one. Even the saddest and hardest and bloodiest of stories must end. 

Sometimes, we have no say over the ways in which they do. In this case, in this story, you were lucky enough to make choices. 

And this choice, the choice to move forward, is one you intend to stick to. 


End file.
